C/l>    L-X*^txL/ ' 


• 


> 


MARR'D  IN  MAKING 


By  the  Same  Author 

MISS  CARMICHAEL'S  CONSCIENCE 

A  STTOT  Ul  FLUCTUATIONS 
Clot*,  ormamemtmt,  with  Fromtispifce, 


TW  queenly 
widl  «»  w«U-t»ued  bemd  and  tbe  •  fire,  or  tmokf, 
m  •••fillip  mla  eyes,  MB  fletts  before  the 
•taTs  eye  «hen  the  book  »  closed,  and  we  fed 
taat  tb*  ezplaia>  (OBC  things,  for  her  ttorjr  is  set 
Cortk  in  Unck  and  white,"—  £••  Fr**citco  Arg»- 

"  V  the  anther  can  write  other  books  as  clever 
as  this,  the  sooner  she  sets  about  it  tbe  better."— 
C*mtr-Jfr  (tU*t.)  Trilmmt. 

"This  eztraonfinanrf  clerer  nordette."  — 
PkiU&lfki*  Prett. 


BETH 


MARR'D  IN  MAKING" 


BY 


BARONESS    VON    HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  OF  "MISS  CARMICHAEL?  S 
CONSCIENCE,"  ETC. 


WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
E.     PLAISTED     ABBOTT 


PHILADELPHIA      AND      LONDON 

J.     B.     LIPPINCOTT      COMPANY 

1901 


Copyright, 
By  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 


Electrotype*  and  Printed  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.S.A. 


TO 

F  K.  H. 

WITH 
LOVE 


— "  Some  there  are  who  tell 
Of  one  who  threatens  be  will  toss  to  Hell 
The  luckless  pots  be  marr'd  in  making" 

OMAR  KHAYYAM 


PART  ONE 


"MARR'D    IN    MAKING 


CHAPTER   I 

THE   light,  sifting  in   softly  through 
closed  shutters,  filled  the  room  with 
a   delicate   green   gloom    more   akin    to 
darkness  than  to  light. 

Falling  across  the  bed,  it  drew  a  faint 
shimmer  from  the  ring  on  the  loose-lying 
hand  of  the  sick  woman,  and  showed, 
even  against  the  whiteness  of  the  coun- 
terpane, the  strange  pallor  of  the  hand 
itself.  Beyond  the  bed,  on  a  small  table 
covered  with  a  linen  cover  edged  with 
crochetted  lace,  stood  a  carafe,  a  tall, 
engraved  glass,  a  medicine  bottle,  and  a 
green-and-gold  china  atomizer. 

From  the  pillow  where  the  sick  woman 
lay,  the  great  old-fashioned  black  furni- 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

ture— too  new  to  be  picturesque,  too  old 
to  be  graceful— seemed  to  be  absorbing 
slowly  the  little  light  there  was  into  its 
own  vague  darkness,  and  of  the  old  en- 
gravings symmetrically  hung  on  the  walls 
she  could  see  only  the  faint  gleam  of  the 
gold  on  the  inner  edge  of  the  frames. 

There  was  no  sound ;  the  house  was 
filled  with  that  stillness  that  accompanies 
the  first  hour  after  a  birth  or  a  death. 
At   length    the    sick    woman    spoke : 

"  Mrs.  Gurney " 

"  Yes,  Maud."  The  answer  came  from 
the  dimness  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

There  was  character  in  each  of  the 
voices,  and  as  each  woman  heard  that  of 
the  other,  the  realization  of  the  truth  of 
the  voice-revelation  caused  her  an  uneasy 
sensation. 

"  I  want  to  see  her.  And  I  hate  this 
darkness." 

Mrs.  Gurney  rose,  and,  walking  quietly 
across  the  room,  opened  a  door.  "  An- 
tonia !"  she  said. 

The   clear  light  of  an   early  summer 


10 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

morning,  rushing  in  the  sick-room,  chased 
away  the  shadows  and  caught  high  lights 
in  the  mirror,  on  angles  of  the  well-kept 
furniture,  and  blazed  on  the  ruddy  blond 
head  on  the  pillow. 

The  sick  woman  laughed.  "Ah,"  she 
murmured,  "how  nice!" 

In  the  next  room  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  soft  stir,  and  then  a  big,  loosely-built 
woman,  all  curves,  came  in,  the  baby  in 
her  arms. 

Maud  Gurney  drew  herself  up  as  the 
nurse  gave  the  little  creature  to  her,  and 
looked  down  at  it. 

"  Dear  me,  how  homely  she  is  !"  she 
said. 

The  older  woman  watched  her,  a  half- 
smile  on  her  thin  lips.  The  sweet,  weak 
face,  the  beautiful  blue  eyes,  the  poor 
little  faulty  chin, — all  these  things  told  the 
story  over  again  to  the  keen  middle-aged 
woman,  who  knew  it  so  well  already. 

"  No  uglier  than  all  little  babies  are," 
she  said,  at  length. 

Maud  Gurney  flushed.     "I  know  I'm 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

always  saying  idiotic  things,— but  I  never 
saw  one  before,— and  you're  always  so 
hard  on  me."  Her  lips  trembled,  and 
her  eyes  filled. 

"  Hard  on  you  ?  Don't  be  a  goose.  I 
only  said  that  she  is  as  pretty  as  they  ever 
are." 

"But  you  looked  at  me,"  cried  the 
young  woman,  this  time  with  a  sob. 

Mrs.  Gurney's  half  sneer  changed  to  a 
strained  gentleness.  "Don't  cry,"  she 
said,  softly.  "Antonia,  take  the  baby 
away  ;  Mrs.  Gurney  is  too  weak." 

The  Italian  woman,  with  the  phlegm 
of  her  kind,  obeyed. 

Then  Mrs.  Gurney  poured  out  a  glass 
of  water  and,  lifting  the  slight  figure  of 
her  daughter-in-law  with  one  strong  arm, 
held  it  to  her  lips. 

"You  were  mistaken,"  she  went  on, 
tranquilly.  "  I  meant  nothing  in  looking 
at  you.  Besides,  there  is  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  be  pretty.  You  are 
pretty." 

"  Oh,    yes, — I     was     pretty    enough ; 

12 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

George  used  to  praise  my  dimples." 
She  smiled, — a  poor  little  smile  of  a 
vanity  so  visible  as  to  be  almost  pitiful. 
Then  suddenly,  half  raising  herself  and 
speaking  hurriedly :  "  Mrs.  Gurney,  tell 
me,  do  you  believe  in  Heredity?" 

Mrs.  Gurney  turned  her  face  away  for 
a  minute. 

"You  must  not  talk,"  she  answered, 
shortly. 

"Yes,  I  must.     Tell  me,  do  you?" 

"You  know  that  I  do  not  believe  in 
things." 

"  But  Heredity  is  not  Religion,"  per- 
sisted the  sick  woman,  fretfully. 

"  No,  Heredity  is  not  Religion.  Then 
—I  do  believe  in  Heredity.  Why  ?" 

A  feeble  cry  broke  from  Maud  Gurney 
as  she  fell  back  against  her  pillows.  "  Oh, 
I  wish  she  could  die  !  I  wish  she  could 
die  too !" 

The  older  woman  turned  a  shade  paler, 
as  if  something  had  hurt  her  ;  but  she 
answered  quietly, — 

"This  is  nonsense,  Maud.  You  must 
13 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

stop  crying  at  once,  or  I  will  send  for  the 

doctor." 

"I  wish  she  could  die!     Why  should 

she  live?  If  it  is  true,— and  it  must  be 
if  even  you  believe  it,— what  will  she  be  ? 
With  his  qualities  and  mine,  what  can 

she  be?" 

Mrs.  Gurney  rose,  her  eyes  full  of  a 
strange  look  of  implacability.  "Hush! 
She  may  be  like  you,  and  you  are  not  a 
bad  woman." 

"Oh,  stop  talking  so  to  me,"  the  sick 
woman  cried,  with  an  energy  startlingly 
foreign  to  her.  "  I  know  I  am  a  fool,  but 
I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think  !  Let 
me  go  on, — I  will  go  on." 

With  the  strength  of  her  weakness  she 
conquered,  and  hurried  on,  saying  that 
which  she  wished  to  say.  "  All  this  time 
I've  been  thinking  and  thinking.  And  if 
she  has  his  qualities  and  my  weakness, — 
oh,  I  know ! — how  can  she  be  good  ? 
Why  can't  she  die  ?  I  think  God  might 
let  her  die.  Why,  Mrs.  Gurney,  you 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  no  will.  To 
14 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

always  be  making  up  your  mind  to  things 
you  can't  do  ;  to  always  give  in  to  people 
just  because  you  haven't  the  strength  to 
have  your  own  way.  I  was  born  that 
way, — I  was  born  without  a  will.  I  didn't 
want  to  marry  George, — I  was  engaged 
to  another  man,  and  he  was  a  good  man, 
and  rich,  and  I  liked  him  better  than  I  did 
George.  But  George  insisted,  and  I  just 
couldn't  say  no.  Don't  you  see  how 
awful  it  will  be  if  she's  like  me  ?  I  was 
only  a  goose,  for  I  had  no  bad  impulses  ; 
but  if  I  had  had  any,  I  should  have  been 
wicked.  But  she,  poor  little  thing,  has  his 
blood,  too !" 

She  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  cry- 
ing as  she  finished,  her  thin  little  hands 
pressed  tight  to  her  breast. 

Mrs.  Gurney  watched  her  with  a  sense 
of  utter  helplessness  new  to  her.  When 
people  begin  to  think,  no  outside  tender- 
ness can  shield  them  from  pain,  and 
Maud  Gurney's  pain  must  be  borne  by 
Maud  Gurney  as  Mary  Anne  Gurney's 
pain  was  borne  by  Mary  Anne  Gurney. 
15 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

At  length  the  younger  woman  ceased 
crying,  and  wiped  her  eyes  on  one  of  her 
long  yellow  braids.  "  I  know  you  always 
thought  I  was  a  goose,"  she  said,  her 
voice  still  broken. 

Mrs.  Gurney  shook  her  head  gravely. 
"I  have  meant  to  be  kind  to  you,  Maud  ; 
but  I  am  not  an  agreeable  woman,  and  I 
fear  I  may  have  been  hard  sometimes. 
If  so,  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  I  am  sorry. 
About  the  baby,  —  I  will  do  my  best." 

"  But  you  don't  believe  that  doing 
your  best  will  do  any  good.  I  know 
you  don't!" 

Mrs.  Gurney  groaned.  "What  I  be- 
lieve has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
matter.  She  is  not  my  child,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  that.  She  shall  be  brought 
up  to  believe  whatever  Dr.  Bell  and 
Peter  Wayne  may  choose  to  teach  her. 
And  in  other  things  I  will  do  my  best." 

The  sick  woman  did  not  answer,  and 
Mrs.  Gurney  saw  that  she  had  fallen 
asleep  with  the  ease  of  great  weakness. 


16 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Gurney  went  slowly 
down-stairs,  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

Her  slowness  was  the  slowness  of 
strength,  and  as  she  came  into  the  old- 
fashioned  parlour  the  brilliant  light  re- 
vealed a  face  in  which  strength  was  the 
chief  characteristic. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  a  little  be- 
yond fifty,  bony, — the  brow  square  and 
full  of  thought,  the  nose  square  at  the 
base  with  well  modelled  nostrils,  and  a 
straight  pale  mouth,  shaded  at  the  corners, 
which  rarely  moved  except  when  she 
spoke.  Her  chin  was  prominent  and  ugly, 
with  a  cleft  that  gave  it  an  oddly  mascu- 
line look.  And  on  the  whole  face  was 
stamped  the  shadow  of  a  great  suffering, 
either  past  or  under  a  rare  control.  As 
she  came  in,  the  two  men  awaiting  her 
turned  from  the  window  where  they  stood 
looking  out  on  the  sunny  lawn. 

Dr.  Bell,  the  clergyman,  known  to  them 
both  years  ago  as  Billy,  but  who  had 
long  been  "  William,"  and  Peter  Wayne. 
"  Good-morning,  William  ;  good-morning, 

3  17 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Peter,"  she  said,  and  together  they  an- 
swered, "  Good-morning,  Mary  Anne." 
Wayne  took  the  sleeping  child  in  his  arms, 
and  after  a  short  pause  Bell  began,  a 
certain  professional  pomp  in  his  voice : 
"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven " 

Outside  the  window  a  robin  was  sing- 
ing, and  from  afar  came  the  hum  of  a 
lawn-mower.  Mrs.  Gurney  stood  with 
folded  hands  and  looked  around  the 
room. 

Wayne,  his  grotesquely  ugly  face  bent 
over  the  baby,  a  quiver  of  tenderness  on 
his  great  mouth,  listened  reverently.  On 
the  wall  beyond,  the  shadow  of  Bell's  head 
moved  absurdly,  as  his  bearded  chin 
wagged  with  solemnity.  Then  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  little  dark  face  of  the  baby,  and 
her  mind  flew  back  to  the  sudden  access 
of  intuition  that  had  so  surprised  her  up- 
stairs. 

She  smiled  grimly,  and  a  jagged  scar 
on  her  cheek  stood  out  white  against  her 
brown  skin. 

"Poor   Maud,— poor   little   fool,"   she 

18 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

thought.  Then  catching  sight  of  her  tall 
black  figure  in  a  mirror,  she  shuddered 
and  turned  away. 

The  sun  went  under  a  cloud,  leaving 
the  ugly,  old-fashioned  room  dark  for  a 
minute  ;  then  it  came  slowly  back.  She 
watched  the  strengthening  of  the  shadows 
indifferently.  Suddenly  Wayne  was 
giving  the  new-made  Christian  back  to 
her,  and  she  realized  with  a  start  that  it 
was  over.  "May  God  bless  her,  Mary 
Anne,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Peter.  Thank  you,  Wil- 
liam. So,  Miss  Violet  Elisabeth !  Now 
we  will  go  up-stairs.  I  hope,"  she  added 
to  Bell,  with  a  little  sharp  laugh,  "that 
you  spelt  Elisabeth  with  an  s  ?  She  told 
me  to  tell  you,  and  I  forgot.  It  seems 
that  she  hates  '  z  ;'  it  is  such  a  scratchy 
letter !" 

"Poor  child,"  said  Wayne;  "how  is 
she?" 

"  She  is  dying  ;  William,  she  wishes  to 
see  you." 

Dr.  Bell  put  his  Prayer-book  in  his 
19 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

pocket  and  straightened  up  with  a  satis- 
fied air. 

Before  he  could  speak,  she  went  on, 
laughing,  "  I  know  what  you  are  thinking 
of,  Peter  Wayne.  You  are  remembering 
the  other  time  you  stood  Godfather  in  this 
room  !  There  is  very  little  difference, 
isn't  there  ?" 

"You  are  right,  Mary  Anne,"  he  an- 
swered, hastily,  his  mouth  twisting  horri- 
bly in  his  efforts  at  self-control.  "  George's 
child  is  the  same  to  you  as  your 
child." 

She  frowned.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  and 
you  know  it.  Besides,  your  success  as  a 
Godfather  that  time  wasn't  brilliant  enough 
to  make  you  vainglorious.  I  will  take 
her  up-stairs  now.  Good-bye.  Thank 
you,  William." 

The  clergyman  coughed.  He  was  a 
man  of  conscience  and  did  his  duty,  but 
he  was  afraid  of  this  woman  with  whom 
he  had  trundled  hoops  fifty  years 
ago. 

"May  I  not  say,  Mary  Anne,  on  this 

20 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

solemn  occasion,  that  I  hope  this  little 
creature  may " 

"  May  soften  my  heart  ?  My  dear  Wil- 
liam Bell,  do  you  not  know  that  I  am  too 
clever  a  woman  to  let  Time,  that  refuge  of 
the  half-witted,  blunt  my  perceptions  of 
what  has  been  in  the  past  ?  I  know  that 
you  are  a  good  man  in  your  way,  and  that 
Peter  Wayne  is  the  dearest  and  best  of 
men.  Must  I  not  know,  then,  that  my 
son  George  was  a — scamp  ?  He  was  bad, 
and  you  are  good.  Can  I  help  knowing 
the  one  fact  any  more  than  I  can  help 
knowing  the  other  ?  Have  you  anything 
more  to  say?" 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  No.  Only 
that  I  shall  pray  God  to  teach  you  the 
truth." 

"  Good-bye,  then  ;  go  up  to  her.  And 
remember  that  '  Violet  Elisabeth'  is  to 
believe  all  that  you  good  ones  believe. 
She  is  not  my  child." 

When  Bell  had  gone  up-stairs  she 
turned  to  Wayne,  and  her  face  softened : 
"  Dear  Peter !"  she  said,  gently. 

21 


MARR'D   IN    MAKING 

"  Mary  Anne, — you  say  '  because  she 
is  not  your  child,' — does  that  mean  that  if 
she  were,  in  spite  of  everything ?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  shortly.  "My 
failure  was  my  fault,  or  his, — but  not  the 
fault  of  what  I  taught  him.  Now,  good- 
bye." 

Wayne  did  not  answer.  He  stood 
looking  after  her  as  she  ran  easily  up- 
stairs out  of  the  light  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  II 

"'TT7ASH  the  butter  in  iced  water 
VV  until  it  is  of  a  waxy  consist- 
ency,'— I  should  call  that  waxy,  shouldn't 
you,  Beth?" 

Peter  Wayne  held  the  mass  of  butter 
towards  her  as  he  spoke,  his  big  hands 
red  and  covered  with  beads  of  water  that 
clung  to  his  greasy  skin  like  dew-drops. 

The  child  was  sitting  on  the  table,  her 
thin  black  cotton  legs  hanging  down,  the 
toes  turned  in.  She  wore  a  long  white 
apron  tied  behind  in  a  bow.  Her  two 
brown  pigtails  hung  one  over  each 
shoulder. 

"Yes,  I  think  it's  waxy,  Uncle  Peter," 
she  said,  with  a  slight  stammer;  "your 
hands  are  w-waxy,  too." 

The  old  man  laughed.  It  was  very 
delightful  to  him, — the  tidy  kitchen,  with 
its  gleam  of  copper  and  tin,  the  roar  of 
23 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

the  big,  highly-polished  stove,  and  the 
rush  of  the  wind  that  shook  the  frosted 
panes   in   their   sockets.     On   the   table 
stood  an  array  of  cooking  materials,— 
a  rolling-pin,  a  pan  of  flour,  a  pan  of 
chopped  ice,  a  quart  cup,  a  knife,  and 
salt.     The  big,  spotted  cook-book— Miss 
Parloa's— was   opened  at  the  page   de- 
voted to  puff-paste.     Wayne   and   Beth 
were  making  their  Christmas  "surprise" 
for  Mrs.  Gurney.     Last  year  it  had  been 
an  English  plum-pudding.     This  year  it 
was    to    be   "oyster-crab    patties,"    the 
crabs  coming  from  New  York,  the  "  pat- 
ties" being  now  in  process  of  making. 

The  little  girl  watched  every  move- 
ment as  Wayne  worked,  her  pale  face 
aglow  with  interest.  She  was  not  a 
pretty  child;  her  regular,  modelled  fea- 
tures were  unchildish  and  rather  hard, 
her  straight  black  brows  too  marked. 
But  her  small  personality  was  distinctly 
individual,  and  meant  something. 

For  a  little  while  the  old  man  worked 
in   unbroken  silence.     He   chopped  the 
24 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

butter  into  the  flour,  and  then  skilfully 
rolled  the  paste  on  the  board.  Twice  he 
folded  it,  and  spread  it  flat  again  ;  then 
he  laid  it  in  a  tin  pan  filled  with  ice,  and 
covered  it  with  a  small  fringed  ser- 
viette. 

"Thus  endeth  the  f-first  lesson,"  ob- 
served Beth,  turning  cautiously  in  her 
place  and  eating  a  bit  of  ice. 

Wayne  sat  down.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
say  that.  It  is  from  the  Service  of  God, 
and  ought  not  to  be  quoted  lightly." 

A  flash  of  amusement  crossed  her  face, 
giving  it  for  a  second  a  strange  likeness 
to  her  grandmother.  "  Mustn't  I  say 
'  Let  us  pray,'  either?  What  if  I  wanted 
awfully  to  pray  this  minute,  Uncle  Peter  ?" 

"You  don't,"  he  answered,  shortly. 

"  I  know  I  don't ;  but  if  I  did  ?" 

"  Sometimes  I  think  you  have  no  rever- 
ence in  you,"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  his 
face  a  deep  red.  "  Tell  me,  Beth,  do  you 
always  say  your  prayers  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't."  Her  small  face,  as  angry 
as  his  own,  was  white.  "  I  hate  going  to 
25 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

church,  and  I  loathe  saying  my  prayers. 
I  hate  att  such  things." 

"  Child !  Do  you  mean  you  hate 
God?" 

Even  in  her  wrath,  a  quiver  of  amuse- 
ment at  his  horror  came  to  her  red  lips. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  hate  God.  I — -just 
don't  seem  to  realize  him." 

He  recoiled  with  an  intensity  of  feel- 
ing almost  ludicrous.  "  You  don't  realize 
God?  Beth,  come  here." 

She  jumped  down  from  the  table,  and 
came  to  him,  laughing  nervously. 

"It's  time  to  roll  it  out  again,  Uncle 
Peter,"  pointing  to  the  paste;  "and  it's 
getting  late,  and  it's  going  to  snow  like 
the  devil  r 

"  Be  still !  The  paste  can  wait.  Now 
tell  me  what  you  mean." 

She  shuddered.  "  Let's  not  talk  about 
such  things.  I — hate  to.  It  makes  me 
— thirsty  and  s-sick.  I  was  only  teasing 
you,  Uncle  Peter." 

"You  were    not    teasing.     Tell    me. 
What  did  you  mean  ?" 
26 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Then,  seeing  that  it  was  to  be  a  duel 
between  them,  the  child's  face  assumed 
a  look  of  invincible  obstinacy. 

"  I  was  only  teasing.  I  always  say  my 
prayers,  and  I  like  to  go  to  church." 

Catching  her  hands  in  his,  he  held  her 
tight,  and,  looking  into  her  eyes,  said, 
slowly,  "That  is  a  lie,  Beth." 

She  drew  herself  up  proudly,  and  tried 
without  struggling  to  get  away  from  him. 

"That  was  a  lie,  Beth.  You  have  told 
me  a  lie." 

"  I  haven't.  It  wasn't.  You  hurt  my 
arm,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  said,  impatiently. 

"Tell  me  that  you  are  sorry." 

"I  am  not  sorry.  I  have  n-nothing  to 
be  sorry  for." 

Then  he  dropped  her  hands,  untied  his 
blue  apron,  and,  rolling  down  his  sleeves, 
left  her  alone,  telling  her  to  wait  till  he 
came  back.  As  he  left  the  house  he 
heard  her  shrill  little  voice  singing  loudly, 
"  Over  the  Garden  Wall." 

Five  minutes  later  Wayne  burst  into 
Mrs.  Gurney's  sitting-room,  where  she  sat 
27 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

bending  over  her  embroidery.  "  Mary 
Anne,"  he  cried,  without  greeting  her, 
"  she  has  told  me  a  lie  !" 

Mrs.  Gurney  looked  up  with  a  slight 
smile.  "And  you  are  surprised,  Peter? 
She  has  always  lied." 

Wayne  stared  at  her  for  a  second  with- 
out speaking.  Then  :  "  Mary  Anne  ! 
She  has  always  lied  ?  Beth  ?" 

"  Beth." 

He  turned  to  the  mantelpiece,  and, 
reaching  down  a  big  white  pot-pourri  jar, 
plunged  his  great  nose  in  it. 

"  And  you  can  say  it  so  quietly,  Mary 
Anne  Gurney?" 

"And  I  can  say  it  so  quietly,  having 
known  it  now  for  some  six  years." 

He  looked  up,  his  face  distorted  with 
pain.  "  Oh,  my  God  !  what  can  we  do  ?" 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Gurney  drew  her  silk  carefully 
through  the  linen  before  she  answered, 
without  looking  up. 

"We  can  do  nothing,  Peter.  It  is  not 
her  fault." 

26 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Not  her  fault?" 

"  No.  Her  father  was  a  liar.  It  is  in 
her  blood.  George  always  lied,  you 
know." 

"  And  whose  fault  was  it  that  George 
lied  ?  Whose  fault  was  it  that  he  believed 
nothing?  Mary  Anne  Russell,  you  are 
responsible  for  much  evil." 

As  she  paled  under  his  words,  the  long, 
jagged  scar  on  her  cheek,  softened  by 
time,  became  visible. 

"  Stop,  Peter  !  I  refuse  to  be  insulted 
in  my  own  house.  I  tell  you  the  child 
has  always  lied,  and  that,  as  it  is  bred  in 
her  bone,  we — you  and  I — cannot  change 
it.  She  is  very  clever,  and  lies  well. 
That  is  some  consolation.  George  was 
not  quite  clever  enough  to  be  a  good  liar." 

"Woman!"  he  shouted,  grotesque  in 
his  fury.  "  Hold  your  tongue,  or  the  God 
in  whom  you  refuse  to  believe  will  smite 
you  to  the  earth  !" 

She  rose,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm :  "  Come,  come,  Peter,  dear  old 
friend,  what  is  the  use  of  exciting  your- 
29 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

self?  I  respect  your  prejudices.  Re- 
spect mine.  The  child  has  good  qualities. 
She  is  affectionate, — though  she  tries  to 
hide  it, — she  is  generous,  and  she  has 
brain.  She  will  lie.  Let  her.  Ignore  it. 
She  will  never  lie  to  hurt  any  one.  Her 
generosity  would  prevent  that.  One 
quality  qualifies  another,  all  the  world 
over.  As  to  my  son  George,  you,  as  an 
honest  man,  can  hardly  take  his  part." 

Wayne  groaned.  "  But  you  are  his 
mother." 

"  Yes.  And  although  I  am  his  mother, 
I  am  a  woman  with  a  brain  in  her  head, 
who  cannot  belie  her  own  knowledge.  I 
know  that  he  was  a  useless,  vicious  man 
all  his  life,  and  at  the  end, — dishonest." 

Her  face  was  calm  as  she  spoke. 

"Mary  Anne,  at  the  end  you  cannot 
know  what  he  was.  Before  the  end  he 
had  done  his  best." 

She  laughed  nervously  as  she  sat  down 
and  took  up  her  embroidery. 

"Of  course  I  know  that.     You  have 
told  me  often  enough." 
30 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"And  the  mercy  of  God  is  infinite." 

She  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders  im- 
patiently. 

"  If  there  were  a  God,  Peter,  He  could 
not  be  a  weak  sentimentalist  who  would 
forgive  twenty-six  years  of  utter  badness 
in  recompense  for  the  cries  for  pardon  of 
a  dying  man,  terrified  by  the  unknown. 
Religion  has  its  good  points,  but  its  great 
weakness  is  a  tendency  to  lapse  into  ab- 
surdity. Now,  you  had  better  go,  for  my 
mouth  is  full  of  bitter  words  that  want 
to  be  said." 

He  set  the  white  jar  back  in  its  place, 
and  took  up  his  hat.  His  face,  remark- 
ably ugly  as  it  was,  was  beautiful  in  its 
expression  of  tender  pity. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand.  "The  time  will  come,  Mary 
Anne." 

Then  he  went,  and  left  her  alone, 
bending  over  her  embroidery.  She  was 
nearly  sixty  years  old,  and  looked,  in 
spite  of  her  upright  figure,  older ;  but 
her  black  eyes  were  strong  as  those  of  a 
31 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hawk,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  work  before 
her  was  rarely  lovely.  For  an  hour  she 
bent  over  the  frame,  her  straight  lips 
pressed  tight  together,  her  nostrils  stiff. 
Then  she  rose,  and  deliberately  put  away 
the  embroidery  frame,  folded  the  silks 
away  in  a  little  yellow  plush  bag,  and 
rolling  the  shreds  of  ruffled  fluff  that 
hung  on  her  gown  into  a  ball,  threw  them 
into  the  soft-coal  fire.  Then  she  stood  a 
few  minutes  looking  out  into  the  snow. 
"Poor  Peter,"  she  said  aloud. 


CHAPTER   III 

T  7IOLET  ELISABETH  GURNEY 
V  grew  rapidly,  developing  new  angles 
and  new  lengths  of  bone,  almost  to  the 
naked  eye.  She  was  not  a  pretty  child, 
and  being  born  vain, — of  that  vanity  that 
hides  itself  jealously, — she  suffered  from 
her  ugliness,  which  she  exaggerated. 
Other  girls  were  fat,  with  nice  thick  ankles 
and  red  cheeks,  slightly  raw  in  winter, 
which  was  delightful.  She  herself  was 
hard  and  bony,  with  long,  narrow  feet  and 
pointed  ankles,  and  her  colourless,  oval 
face  only  gathered  colour  in  the  nose ! 

Bella  Lacy,  her  best  friend,  a  heavy, 
good-natured  girl  with  high  red  cheeks 
and  greenish-blond  hair,  was  for  years 
Beth's  admiration  and  adoration.  For 
Bella,  she  begged  cakes  of  her  grand- 
mother's cook,  and  then  with  rapture 
watched  Bella's  leisurely  feast. 
3  33 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

White  cakes  gleaming  with  varnish- 
like  frosting,  small  fruit  cakes  bulging 
with  raisins  and  hickory  nuts,  caramel 
cakes,  all  these  were  offered  at  the  shrine 
of  Bella  Lacy,  who  ate  them  without  en- 
thusiasm, licking  her  finger  to  pick  the 
crumbs  from  the  generous  roundness  of 
her  young  bosom.  Bella  Lacy  wore  cor- 
sets ! 

Beth  longed  for  corsets  and  a  bustle 
with  all  the  ardour  of  her  thirteen  years. 
Bella  Lacy  wore  heels,  and  lovely,  ready- 
made  Pebblegoat  shoes,  whereas  her, 
Beth' s,  calfskin  boots,  laced  tight  to  sup- 
port her  constantly  turning  ankles,  were 
made  to  order,  which  was  the  cause  of  the 
bitterest  shame  to  the  child.  She  copied 
Bella  in  every  way  ;  mispronounced  words, 
ate  pickled  limes  which  gave  her  the 
creeps,  and  tried  to  learn  to  keep  her 
mouth  slightly  open.  Mrs.  Gurney's 
sharp  eyes  missed  none  of  these 
signs. 

"  Beth,  why  do  you  say  '  oar-inge'  ?" 
she  asked,  one  day. 

34 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"I  don't  know.  Do  I?"  The  little 
girl  put  down  the  chop  bone  that  she  was 
gnawing. 

"  Yes.  And  you  say  hawr-rible.  Why  ? 
Is  it  because  Bella  does  ?" 

"  Because  Bella Why,  Grandma  ! 

You  don't  think  I  copy  her,  do  you  ?  She's 
the  stupidest  girl  in  school  !" 

Mrs.  Gurney  was  silent.  But  though 
she  said  little  she  saw  much.  She  watched 
the  tragedy  of  Bella's  desertion  of  the 
two  years  younger  Beth  for  a  "new  girl" 
at  the  Academy.  She  laughed  at  Beth' s 
brilliant,  curt  characterization  of  the  new 
girl,  and  she  observed  that  the  crying  at 
night  only  lasted  two  days,  and  that  the 
child's  sudden  delight  in  Pauline  Murray, 
a  girl  whose  father  kept  a  fashionable 
"drug  store"  on  Main  Street,  was  loud  in 
inverse  ratio  to  her  real  love  for  the  gentle, 
dark-eyed,  "  Lime-drop  girl." 

"You  see,  Peter,  I  was  right,"  the  old 
woman  said,  one  day.  "It  is  her  first  in- 
stinct to  present  to  her  little  world  a  false 
impression  of  herself." 

35 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  She  is  shy.    She  keeps  her  own  affairs 

to  herself." 

Wayne  was  turning  the  pot-pourri  jar 
between  his  hands  as  he  answered  : 

"I  don't  like  gushing  girls." 

Mrs.  Gurney  repressed  a  smile,  but  did 
not  answer. 

When  Beth  was  sixteen,  she  was  con- 
firmed. Dr.  Bell  and  Wayne  walked 
home  from  church  together. 

"William,"  Wayne  asked,  "what  do 
you  think  about  it?  How  did  she  take 
her  instruction  ?" 

"Just  as  all  the  other  girls  did.  They 
are  not  easy  to  impress,  these  young 
things.  I  sometimes  think  we  confirm  at 
a  too  advanced  age.  Girls  at  fifteen  and 
sixteen  are  full  of  the  excitement  of  dawn- 
ing womanhood  ;  they  are  beginning  to  be 
vain, — to  try  their  wings " 

Wayne  listened  absently.  Dr.  Bell's 
abstract  wisdom  had  no  charm  for  him. 

"I  am  deeply  interested  in  her,   you 
know,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.     "  She  is 
full  of  possibilities." 
36 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Oh,  yes,  she's  a  smart  girl.  Mary 
Anne's  unfortunate  opinions " 

"  Have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
Beth,"  interrupted  Wayne,  loyally. 

"  Beth  has  been  in  our  hands  from  the 
beginning,  William." 

They  had  reached  Wayne's  house,  and 
paused. 

"  Well,  Peter,  I  have  done  my  best,  and 
I'm  sure  you've  done  yours.  She  seems 
very  reverent,  and  has  given  me  no  trouble 
with  questions,  as  some  of  'em  think  it 
smart  to  do.  Further  than  that  I  can't 
say.  She  is  very  reserved." 

Wayne's  face  lightened  as  he  held  out 
his  hand.  "  You're  right,  Peter, — that's 
exactly  it.  She  is  reserved  to  a  most  rare 
degree.  All  her  life  she's  hidden  her  feel- 
ings. Good-bye.  Give  my  love  to 
Etta." 

That  afternoon,  after  dinner,  to  which 
two  o'clock  meal  Wayne  had  been  invited 
by  Mrs.  Gurney,  the  two  sat  together  in 
the  sitting-room. 

Beth,  curled  up  in  a  ball  in  an  easy- 

37 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

chair,  was  reading  Tennyson.  Wayne 
watched  her  curiously.  He  had  not  been 
able  to  detect  any  sign  of  excitement  in 
the  girl  beyond  the  fact  that  she  had  talked 
so  rapidly  and  continuously  during  dinner 
that  he  had  been  unable  to  speak  to  her 
seriously,  as  he  wished  to  do. 

In  this  rapid  fire  of  talk  he  felt  her  old 
embarrassment  in  speaking  of  solemn 
things.  And  a  certain  little  shivering 
movement  of  the  shoulders  and  a  fleeting 
expression  of  malaise,  almost  amounting 
to  nausea,  had  been  her  only  reply  to  his 
solemn  blessing  when  he  had  first  reached 
the  house.  Suddenly,  as  he  watched  her, 
she  looked  up.  "  Uncle  Peter,  do  you 
know  Jim  Porter  ?" 

"  William  B.  Porter's  son  ?     Yes." 

"  Well,  he's  going  to  marry  Susy  Law- 
ton." 

"Is  he?     How  old  is  he?" 

"  Twenty-one.  And  she's  only  nine- 
teen. Absurd,  I  call  it,"  she  added,  with 
an  air  of  wisdom. 

"  And  they  say  that  Sally  McLean  is 
38 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

flirting  with  Tom  Wade,  and  that  his 
mother  hates  it." 

"Who  tells  you  all  this  stuff?" 

"  It  isn't  stuff;  it  is  true.  And  if  /  had 
a  son,  I  shouldn't  allow  him  to  flirt  with 
married  women.  And  she  is  a  perfectly 
hideous  old  thing,  too." 

Wayne's  eyes  twinkled  suddenly. 

"  Her  personal  appearance  hasn't  much 
to  do  with  the  question,  though,  has  it, 
Beth?" 

"  It  always  has  to  do  with  the  question, 
Uncle  Peter  !  Were  you  ever  in  love  ?" 

He  drew  nearer,  and  bent  his  bald  head, 
gleaming  in  the  Easter  sun,  to  her.  "  I'll 
tell  you  if  you'll  tell  me  !  I  was  once. 
Were  you  ?" 

"I!  Bah!  Never.  Do  you  know, 
Uncle  Peter,  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  fall  in 
love, — it  makes  me  quite, — I  don't  know, 
woozy  to  think  of  it."  She  gave  a  comic 
shiver,  and,  her  grandmother  coming  in 
just  then,  went  back  to  her  book. 

The  next  day,  on  taking  her  place  in 
the  First  Room  of  the  Academy,  she  found 

39 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

a  bunch  of  hot-house  violets  on  her 
desk. 

"  Dear  me,  Beth,  aren't  they  sweet  ? 
Who  sent  'em  ?" 

Bella  Lacy,  much  the  same  as  she  had 
been  three  years  before,  leaned  over  the 
aisle  as  she  spoke. 

"No  idea,"  answered  Beth,  promptly, 
her  face  crimson  with  excitement,  her  heart 
beating.  "  It  was  either  the  Professor  or 
Billy  Curtis,"  insisted  Bella,  gently. 

"The  Professor !"  Beth  rose,  and,  going 
to  the  small  tilted  glass  in  the  corner,  ar- 
ranged the  violets  on  her  bodice,  pinning 
them  with  a  hat-pin. 

"It  was  he,  it  was  he !"  she  said  over 
and  over  again  to  herself  during  the 
morning. 

It  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  that 
the  girl  had  felt  her  heart  beat. 

At  the  age  of  ten  she  had  loved  a  "  big 
boy"  whose  woolly  black  curls  were  beau- 
tiful to  her,  and  the  breaks  in  whose 
changing  voice  gave  her  delicious  thrills. 

At  this  time  she  was  known  as  the  most 
40 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

reckless  tomboy  in  town,  and  was  sup- 
posed to  be  utterly  free  from  the  sillinesses 
of  other  little  girls.  Then  a  cousin  of 
Bella  Lacy's  came  to  spend  the  summer 
in  Deepwater,  and  this  time  her  love  was 
reciprocated,  until  when,  on  leaving,  the 
youth,  enterprising  for  his  thirteen  years, 
wished  to  kiss  her  good-bye. 

He  went  away  with  a  bound-up  eye 
and  wrath  in  his  heart,  and  Beth,  trembling 
all  over  with  horror,  occupied  herself  with 
Miss  Yonge's  praiseworthy  heroes  for 
several  months. 

Then  at  fifteen  she  had  been  advanced 
to  the  First  Room,  and  promptly  fell  in 
love  with  the  "  Professor,"  a  young  Har- 
vard man  who  wore  a  red  carnation  in  his 
button-hole  every  day  in  the  year.  She 
read  a  great  deal  in  Bartlett's  "Fa- 
miliar Quotations"  at  this  period,  look- 
ing out  verses  appropriate  to  the  situa- 
tion. 

The  other  girls  had  their  vulgar  little 
love-affairs  with  the  "big  boys,"  but  Beth 
was  excluded  from  their  sentimental  con- 
41 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

fidences  on  account  of  the  supposed  hard- 
ness of  her  heart. 

She  accepted,  and  even  encouraged 
this  idea.  She  had  no  need  of  confidants, 
and  enjoyed  her  pose  of  being  superior 
to  those  weaknesses  which  were  in  reality 
hers  more  than  those  of  the  others.  And 
now,  with  ankle-long  skirts  and  turned-up 
braid  tied  with  a  chaste  black  velvet  rib- 
bon, she  knew  that  she  was  on  the  verge 
of  a  crisis.  Billy  Curtis,  a  Yale  "man," 
a  football  hero,  the  owner  of  the  biggest 
house  in  town,  was  not  only  in  love  with 
her,  but  he  was  going  to  propose  to  her ! 
While  she  went  through  her  lessons  with 
her  usual  rather  inaccurate  brilliance,  the 
girl's  hands  were  ice-cold. 

At  length,  during  the  last  hour,  the 
class  in  Greek  was  called,  and  as  usual, 
the  door,  opening  a  little  late,  admitted 
young  Curtis,  who  was  polishing  up  his 
Greek  for  the  near  Exams  at  New  Haven. 

Beth  was  deep  in  a  book  when  he  came 
in  ;  too  deep  to  bow  to  him,  but  not  too 
deep  to  at  once  see  every  particular  of 
42 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

his  costume,  even  to  the  modest  button- 
hole of  violets  in  his  lapel.  He  was  a  big, 
broad  youth,  with  an  honest,  undeveloped 
face,  and  a  hazy,  yellow  moustache,  under 
which  his  fresh  red  mouth  looked  too 
large.  As  he  sat  down,  Beth  looked  up 
— shyly.  He  saw  the  violets,  and  flushed. 

When  the  releasing  bell  rang,  Beth 
hurried  to  the  hall,  put  on  her  jacket  and 
hat  and  fled  from  the  building  as  though 
chased  by  a  devil. 

It  was  her  honest  wish  to  escape  the 
coming  interview  that  impelled  her  to 
hurry. 

While  that  interview  was  in  the  future, 
its  delightful  possibilities  of  thrillingness 
had  enchanted  her ;  but  now,  for  some 
reason  too  subtile  for  her  to  analyze,  the 
old  feeling  of  disgust  towards  emotions 
swept  strong  over  her. 

All  her  life  it  had  been  so.  Artificial 
emotions  she  loved.  Real  ones  were 
abhorrent  to  her.  And  she  had,  with  the 
wonderful  feminine  instinct  that  is  as 
strong  at  sixteen  as  at  twenty-six,  felt 

43 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

something  in  Curtis's  young  eyes  that 
warned  her  that  the  reins  had  slipped 
from  her  hands  to  his. 

She  was  flying  along  over  the  wet 
spring  pavement,  when  he  came  up  be- 
hind her. 

"  Beth  !  why  didn't  you  wait  for  me  ?" 

"Why  should  I  wait  for  you,  Mr.  Cur- 
tis?" 

"  Mr.  Curtis  !  But  you  are  wearing  the 
violets,  anyway,"  he  answered,  glancing 
at  them. 

In  her  agony  to  escape,  she  stopped 
short,  and,  taking  the  flowers  from  her 
dress,  looked  at  them  doubtfully. 

"They  are  horn  you,  then  !"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  they  are.  From  whom  did 
you  think  them?" 

"  From  Mattie  Thompson.  She  often 
puts  flowers  on  my  desk.  Oh, — I — I  don't 
think  Grandma  would  like  me  to  wear 
flowers  a  gentleman  gave  me  !" 

This  access  of  primness  was  so  well 
played  that  Curtis  was  staggered. 

"  Oh,  I  say !"  he  began,  and  then  was 

44 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

silent.  And  in  silence  they  made  their 
way  up  the  street. 

The  double  rows  of  trees  were  frothy 
with  green  promise  of  summer,  and  the 
lawns,  spongy  and  brown,  were  sifted  over 
with  pale  fresh  grass.  The  old  houses, 
dignified  and  plain  for  the  most  part,  under 
the  tall  trees,  the  uneven  red  bricks  of 
the  sidewalk,  the  "lot"  in  the  middle  of 
a  block,  where  later  two  cows  would  graze, 
— all  these  things  were  characteristic  of 
the  small  old  American  city. 

Beth  walked  on,  bowing  with  a  certain 
solemnity  of  her  own  to  the  few  way- 
farers, chiefly  hungry  business  men,  hurry- 
ing home  to  luncheon  or  dinner,  Curtis 
bending  forward  at  the  waist  in  a  certain 
decrepitude  much  cultivated  by  the  very 
young  at  that  time. 

At  length  they  reached  the  gate  of  Mrs. 
Gurney's  garden,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  I — I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Beth  ; 
may  I  come  this  afternoon  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  Miss  K-Kitty  Blair's," 

45 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

she  returned,  with  her  slight  stammer. 
"  I  am  to  be  one  of  her  bridesmaids,  you 
know." 

"To-morrow,  then  ?" 

"  To-morrow  some  of  the  girls  are 
coming  to  spend  the  afternoon." 

Curtis  flushed.  "Beth, — I  am  going 
day  after  to-morrow.  Wait  a  minute, — 
please  don't  go " 

But  she  had  slipped  within  the  gate, 
and  without  turning,  forgetful  of  the  dig- 
nity of  sixteen,  flew  up  the  front  path  and 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  church  was  full.  From  behind 
one  saw  a  sea  of  shoulders,  and,  like 
any  other  homogeneous  collection,  it  was 
a  study. 

There  was  the  generous  display  of  the 
mon  "chic"  society  of  the  town.  White 
shoulders  and  yellow,  fat,  with  slight  bil- 
lows towards  the  roots  of  the  hair,  and 
scrawny  ones  suggestive  of  plucked  birds. 
Shoulders  that  gleamed  bluish  in  the 
lamplight  as  the  Blanc  de  Lys  stiffened, 
shoulders  scaly  with  rice  powder. 

Then  there  were  black  and  brown  and 
grey  silk  shoulders.  These  belonged  to 
the  old-fashioned  "  set,"  who  were  mostly 
Presbyterians. 

The  half  low-cut  gowns,  too  low  to  be 
high,  too  high  to  be  low,  belonged  to  those 
who  worshipped  both  God  and  Mammon, 

47 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

and  who  found  it  answer  very  well,  the 
Bible  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 
And  here  and  there  bloomed  the  beauti- 
ful perfection  of  a  Paris  gown,— a  Worth 
or  a  Paquin.  And  in  these  cases  splen- 
did jewels  crowned  the  perfection. 

In  no  other  country  in  the  world  exists 
such  a  state  of  society  as  one  finds  in 
small  cities  in  the  United  States. 

The  wife  of  the  millionaire,  enjoying 
her  millions  to  the  top  of  her  bent,  can 
be,  and  often  is,  the  intimate  friend  of 
the  Bank  Cashier's  wife,  who  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  "  China-Store"  man,  and  lives 
on  less  than  a  thousand  dollars  a 
year. 

It  is  a  survival  of  simple  old  times,  and 
though  its  disadvantages  are  obvious,  long 
may  it  last  The  stranger  who  seeks  the 
American  Snob  must  seek  him  in  the 
great  Eastern  cities,  where  the  society  is 
almost  cosmopolitan.  In  the  typical  small 
city  the  snob  does  not  exist. 

The  church  was  sweet  with  the  odour 
of  flowers,  but  no  artificial  perfume  was 
48 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

in  the  air.  American  women  do  not 
use  perfume,  whereas  the  English  have 
already  begun  to  imitate  the  French 
woman's  fad  of  having  "  un  parfum  par- 
ticulier"  Down  the  middle  aisle,  white 
satin  ribbons  were  knotted  about  great 
plumy  bunches  of  white  lilacs,  and  the 
chancel  was  a  mass  of  palms  and  azalias. 

"It  is  very  pretty  indeed,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Gurney  to  Peter  Wayne.  "  But  I 
wish  they'd  come." 

"  They  will  in  time.  Wedding-parties 
are  always  late,"  he  returned,  philosophi- 
cally. "Yours  was.  How  does  she 
look?" 

Mrs.  Gurney  laughed.  "  You  are  an 
old  goose,  Peter  Wayne  !  Your  vanity  in 
that  child  is  something  absurd." 

"  I  know  it.     But — tell  me." 

"Well, — she  looks  rather  plain,  and 
carries  her  head  strangely  with  her  hair 
up.  But  you'll  see." 

Then  the  organ  burst  out,  and  every 
one  turned  half  around,  so  that  the  study 
in  shoulders  was  transformed  to  a  study 

4  49 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

in  profiles,  which  as   a  rule  are  very  un- 
satisfactory. 

At  length,  down  the  aisle  they  came. 
John  Owen  Blair,  with  his  pretty  daughter 
on  his  arm,  a  priceless  lace  veil  falling 
frostlike  from  her  head  to  her  heels  ;  then 
the  bridesmaids.  Six. 

Beth  Gurney,  being  one  of  the  tallest, 
came  last,  with  a  Miss  Tilney,  from  New 
York,  a  school-friend  of  the  bride's. 

"  Well,  I  declare!"  murmured  Mrs.  Gur- 
ney, behind  her  fan,  to  Wayne.  "  She  has 
her  mother's  diamond  star  in  her  hair  !" 

Her  head,  crowned  with  the  pile  of  dark 
hair,  well  up,  her  hips  held  back  in  a  way 
she  had  learned  in  seeing  Miss  Tilney 
walk  across  the  room,  Beth  marched  down 
the  aisle,  perfectly  calm,  and  indeed  look- 
ing rather  bored. 

The  way  of  arching  her  brows  had  also 
been  copied  from  Miss  Tilney. 

"She     is     beautiful,     Mary     Anne." 
Wayne's  voice  was  exultant.     Then  the 
music  stopped,  the  crowd  ceased  surging, 
and  the  service  began, 
so 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Beth  stood  gracefully,  her  clear-cut, 
slightly  hard  profile  turned  to  the  Best 
Man,  Gordon  Blair,  the  bride's  brother. 

The  diamonds  in  her  hair  lent  a  strange 

o 

note  to  the  picture.  They  changed  her 
face  and  gave  a  new  dignity  to  her  figure. 
She  seemed  to  have  changed  all  at  once 
from  a  thin,  angular  child  to  a  beautiful 
young  woman.  And  she  knew  it. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  service  the  girl 
in  front  of  her  began  to  cry.  "  Stop  it, 
Mary.  Your  nose  will  be  horrible,"  Beth 
whispered. 

Then  the  bridal  pair  passed  by,  and  she 
fell  in  line  with  Bennie  Welch,  one  of  the 
ushers,  a  leading  spirit  in  things  social 
but  unpleasant  as  to  complexion. 

In  the  dressing-room  at  the  house,  Beth 
took  a  small  rag  of  chamois-skin  from  her 
pocket  and  rubbed  her  nose  with  it. 

"  What  have  you  there,  Miss  Gurney  ?" 
asked  Miss  Tilney,  curiously.  "  Powder  ?" 

Beth  felt  that  the  other  was  amused,  and 
flushed. 

"  Yes.  I  hate  shiny  noses  ;  don't  you  ? 
51 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

May  I  lend  it  to  you  ?  It  is  Pozzoni's,— 
but  perhaps  you  do  not  like  Pozzoni's, — 
I  have  had  very  little  experience." 

Miss  Tilney  bit  her  lips.  "  Thanks.  I 
never  use  powder." 

Half  an  hour  later  Beth  was  seated 
at  the  "bridesmaids'  table"  between  Mr. 
Welch  and  a  Boston  man,  a  friend  of  the 
groom's. 

The  table,  with  its  array  of  silver  and 
flowers,  the  little  bouillon  cups  with  two 
handles,  the  salted  almonds, — all  these 
things,  as  well  as  the  champagne  glasses, 
excited  her  strangely.  She  was  grown- 
up at  last ! 

But  though  she  was  hungry,  she  could 
not  eat.  Bennie  Welch,  scorning  her  six- 
teen years,  devoted  himself  to  the  girl  the 
other  side  of  him,  and  Mr.  Poe,  the  Bos 
ton  man,  devoted  himself  to  the  supper, 
which  came  from  Augustin's,  in  Philadel 
phia. 

Opposite  Beth  sat  Gordon  Blair — the 
Beautiful  Gordon  Blair  and  Miss  Tilney 
His  dark  head  had  a  way  of  bending  tc 
52 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hers  as  he  spoke,  that  Beth  found  en- 
chanting. 

Beth  had  not  seen  him  since  she  was  a 
small  child,  and  his  really  striking,  Span- 
ish-like beauty  gave  her  a  mixture  of  keen 
pleasure  and  jealousy. 

Miss  Tilney  was  only  a  colour-beauty, 
she  told  herself  contemptuously,  and 
dreadfully  old  at  that.  She  must  be 
twenty-four ! 

Blair,  she  knew,  was  six  years  older 
than  Miss  Kitty,  which  made  him  twenty- 
eight. 

"  I  am  too  skinny  now,"  the  girl  thought, 
dispassionately,  "but  in  two  years  I'll  be 
much  prettier  than  she  is,  with  her  frizzled 
hair." 

"  Miss  Gurney  !"  Beth  started.  Blair 
was  leaning  towards  her  through  the 
flowers  and  ferns.  "  May  I  have  the  third 
waltz?" 

"With  pleasure,"  she  returned,  calmly. 

He  bowed,  and  went  back  to  Miss  Til- 
ney, who  said  something  to  him  in  an  un- 
dertone and  laughed. 

53 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

The  third  waltz  came.  Beth  was  stand- 
ing with  the  Bishop  who  had  married  Kitty 
Blair.  Blair  and  Miss  Tilney  were  seated 
together  on  a  small  sofa. 

The  waltz  was  the  "  Blue  Danube,"  and, 
as  it  began,  Blair  sprang  up  and  offered 
his  arm  to  Miss  Tilney.  Beth  watched 
them  dancing  as  she  talked  to  the  Bishop 
of  his  eldest  granddaughter,  who  was  her 
friend. 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  excite- 
ment and  anger,  and  her  yellow-brown 
eyes  looked  black. 

The  next  dance  was  a  polka.  She 
danced  with  Welch  and  then  went  back 
to  the  Bishop. 

Presently  the  orchestra  began  another 
waltz,  and  Blair  appeared,  leaving  Miss 
Tilney  in  her  corner. 

"  May  I  not  have  this  waltz  ?"  he  asked. 
"  I — am  so  sorry," 

Miss  Tilney  was  smiling  as  she  looked 
on. 

'Thanks,"    answered    Beth,    politely, 
smiling  at  him  as  she  fanned  herself.     "  I 

54 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

think  I  won't  dance  ;  I  haven't  seen  Bishop 
Morgan  for  such  a  long  time, — you  will 
excuse  me  ?" 

She  took  the  Bishop's  arm  as  she 
finished,  and  with  a  cool  nod  dismissed 
Blair,  who  had  never  been  more  surprised 
in  his  life. 

The  Bishop,  who  knew  the  world,  smiled 
to  himself,  and  led  Beth  off  to  a  seat, 
where  he  gave  himself  up  to  being  amused 
by  her. 

Blair  went  back  to  Miss  Tilney. 

"  Funny  little  thing,"  he  drawled ;  "quite 
turned  me  down." 

"It's  a  pity  she's  so  thin,"  returned  the 
young  lady.  "  She  is  really  almost  pretty." 

"  Don't  care  for  living  skeletons.  Shall 
we  finish  this  ?" 


55 


CHAPTER  V 

TWO  days  later  Beth  Gurney  stood 
before  the  mirror,  viewing  the  effect 
of  a  new  blouse.     It  was  a  dark  red  silk 
blouse,  trimmed  with  little  brass  buttons, 
and  fitted  well. 

"The  colour  is  good,"  she  decided,  as 
she  laid  down  the  ivory  hand-glass  and 
turned  around ;  "  but  I  have  no  waist  at 
all." 

Taking  off  her  snakeskin  belt,  she  care- 
fully bored  a  hole  in  it  some  three  inches 
farther  back  than  the  last  one  already 
pierced,  and  then,  with  set  lips,  proceeded 
to  pull  herself  in.  It  hurt. 

"I  shall  soon  be  used  to  it,"  she  said 
aloud,  trying  to  get  a  full  breath,  "and  it 
looks  splendid !" 

Then   she   sat  down,  and,  tilting   the 
swinging-glass,  proceeded  to  go  through 
a  series  of  poses,  which  she  named  aloud 
56 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

as  she  took  them  :  "  Pensive, — proud, — 
babyish " 

She  twisted  and  turned  as  she  spoke, 
viewing  her  head  from  all  sides.  It  was 
a  pretty  piece  of  acting. 

"The  pensive  one  suits  me  best, — the 
babyish,  least.  My  nose  is  too  long  for 
that.  Yes,  the  dreamy  one  is  the  best. 
That  takes  the  bun.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were 
eighteen.  It's  all  lost  on  that  goose  of  a 
Billy." 

At  length  she  rose,  and  put  on  her  hat. 
"  I'll  go  over  to  Belle's  and  find  out  about 
the  dance  last  night,"  she  said,  as  she 
rammed  the  pin  through  her  hair. 

Just  then  she  saw  from  the  window  a 
man  opening  the  gate.  Her  heart  stood 
still.  Then,  tearing  the  hat  from  her 
head  and  throwing  it  on  the  floor,  she 
rushed  down-stairs  and  into  the  parlour. 
Her  quick  brain  had  made  its  plan.  A 
few  seconds  later  the  door  opened,  and 
Blair  came  in. 

"  Miss  Gurney  !" 

Beth  did^  not  answer.     She  was  lying 

57 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

on  the  rug,  with  her  head  against  a  chair, 
asleep. 

Blair  hesitated.  She  was  very  pretty 
as  she  lay  there,  her  face  on  her  arm,  her 
hair  ruffled,  her  lips  parted.  The  book 
on  the  rug  beside  her  was  open.  It  was 
"  Lancelot  and  Guinevere"  he  saw. 

"  By  Jove  !"  he  said. 

Then,  leaning  down,  he  kissed  her. 

She  stirred,  turned  her  head,  and  made 
a  motion  with  her  hand  as  though  she 
were  brushing  away  a  fly. 

"  By  Jove  !"  he  repeated. 

A  minute  passed ;  then  another.  At 
length  he  was  about  to  go,  when  she 
awoke.  Slowly,  gracefully,  rubbing  her 
eyes  and  stretching  her  arms. 

When  she  saw  him,  she  started,  rose 
to  a  sitting  posture,  and  said,  slowly, 
"  Mr.  Gordon !" 

Then  she  got  up,  and  arranged  her 
ruffled  hair.  "  I—  I  was  asleep,"  she  said, 
with  her  slight  stammer. 

"So   I   saw.     But,  now  that  you   are 
awake,  won't  you  ask  me  to  sit  down  ?" 
58 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Of  course.  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you.  Grandmamma  is  ill,  unfortunately, 
— perhaps  I  can  give  her  a  message  ?" 

"I  did  not  come  to  see  your  grand- 
mother, Miss  Beth  ;  I  came  to  see  you." 

"Oh!"  Her  manner  was  perfect.  Not 
a  trace  of  pique,  not  a  suspicion  of  flutter. 

"I  wonder  what  you  were  dreaming 
when  I  came  in  ?"  he  began,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair. 

"I  wasn't  dreaming  at  all.  I  hope  I 
didn't  snore  ?" 

She  had  a  sense  of  humour  which  often 
saved  her  from  absurdity. 

"No,"  he  laughed;  "and  you  looked 
awfully  pretty." 

"That  is  satisfactory,  at  all  events. 
May  I  give  you  a  cup  of  tea  ?" 

"Thanks.  I  should  be  delighted.  I 
didn't  know  Deepwater  was  civilized  to 
the  extent  of  tea." 

"  It  isn't.  I  am  the  pioneer  of  civiliza- 
tion. Let  us  go  to  the  sitting-room.  I 
loathe  the  parlour." 

When  they  were  seated  again,  she 
59 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

having  called  the  maid  and  ordered  tea, 
she  began : 

"  When  did  Miss  Tilney  go  ?" 

"  How  did  you  know  she  had  gone  ?" 

"  Eh,  mon  Dieu! "  she  cried,  with  a 
little  gesture  learned  from  the  French- 
man who  passed  his  summers  teaching 
in  Deepwater,  and  from  whom  she  had 
acquired  her  very  good  accent. 

"You  are  right.  She  left  this  morn- 
ing." 

"And  you  are  wearing  the  willow." 

"  And  I  am  wearing  the  willow  The 
willow  seems  to  be  the  favourite  '  button- 
hole' for  the  men  of  Deepwater.  Curtis 
is  a  moving  willow-tree,  Miss  Beth." 

"  Curtis  is  a  ridiculous  boy." 

The  tea  had  come  and  she  began  her 
preparations. 

"  So  you  think  a  man  ridiculous  because 
he  is  in  love?" 

"  In  fiddlesticks  !  Billy  Curtis  is  twenty, 
and  I  am  sixteen.  Just  sixteen.  It's  ab- 
surd. I  haven't  any  patience  with  such 
idiots/' 

60 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  laughed.  He  had  a  pleasing,  low 
laugh,  that  disclosed  very  beautiful  white 
teeth. 

"  So  you  are  sixteen  !" 

"Yes.  Please  don't  say  'sweet  six- 
teen.' It  is  horribly  banal,  and  then  so 
untrue.  One  might  as  well  say  'sweet 
green  apples.' ' 

"  Isn't  it  something  new  for  ladies  of 
sixteen  to  wear  diamonds  in  their  hair  ?" 
he  teased,  stirring  his  tea. 

She  laughed  ;  chuckled.  "  Wasn't  it  a 
joke  ?  Of  course  you  know  I  stole  it 
from  Granny.  She  was  furious,  but  I 
found  it  very  becoming,  myself." 

She  had  at  once  felt  that  her  grown-up 
airs  did  not  impress  this  man  as  they  did 
Billy  Curtis,  and  fell  back  into  the  naive 
without  an  instant's  awkwardness. 

Blair  was  as  much  amused  as  he  had 
expected  to  be. 

"  I  thought  so,  too.  May  I  have  some 
more  tea  ?  This  is  rather  weak." 

He  stayed  an  hour,  during  which  time 
she  kept  him  laughing  almost  without 
" 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

ceasing.  At  last  he  rose  to  go,  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye.  I  am  off  to-morrow. 
Please  remember  me  very  kindly  to 
Mrs.  Gurney." 

"  Good-bye.     Bon  voyage." 

When  he  had  gone,  Beth  went  up-stairs 
to  her  grandmother's  room.  Mrs.  Gur- 
ney was  in  bed,  with  a  cold. 

"  Mr.  Gordon  Blair  was  here  to  say 
good-bye,"  she  announced.  "He  is  a 
beautiful  dear ;  but,  oh,  Gran,  he  is 
stupid  !" 

"Is  he?  He  was  not  a  clever  boy, 
but  he  was  a  very  nice  boy.  Beth,  I 
think  you  had  better  telephone  to  the 
doctor.  My  side  aches  badly." 

The  next  day  Blair  left  Deepwater, 
and  Beth  felt  that  life  was  a  burden  for 
nearly  a  week. 


CHAPTER   VI 

GOOD-MORNING,  Mr.  Wayne. 
Mrs.  Gurney  wants  to  know  if 
you  won't  come  over  and  see  about  them 
roses." 

Hank  Burrows,  Mrs.  Gurney' s  man-of- 
all-work,  put  his  head  into  the  open  dining- 
room  window  and  gave  his  message  with- 
out ceremony. 

"  Good-morning,  Hank.  Won't  you 
have  a  cup  of  coffee  ?" 

The  man  grinned  and  wiped  his  gleam- 
ing face  on  his  shirt-sleeve.  "  Wai,  I'd 
jes'  as  leave,  if  you'll  hand  it  out  here. 
I  ain't  fit  to  come  in  this  morning.  Ben 
working  in  the  sun." 

Wayne  poured  out  the  coffee  and  car- 
ried it  to  the  window. 

"  How  are  things  at  your  house  ?"  he 
asked,  reseating  himself. 

"Hm.  If  I  was  you,  Mr.  Wayne,  I 
63 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

wouldn't  go  over.  She's  in  an  awful  tem- 
per. Scolded  me  about  them  gladiolys, 
—but  I  just  let  her  scold.  Poor  woman," 
he  added,  after  another  draught.  "  The 
1 3th  September  is  always  a  real  hard  day 
for  her,  I  know,  and  wimmen  must  scold 
when  they  takes  a  notion.  Does  'em 
good  and  don't  hurt  no  one." 

Wayne's  big  mouth  twitched,  but  he 
did  not  laugh.  "You  certainly  do  know 
the  world,  Hank,"  he  remarked. 

"  Wai,  no.  But  I  know  her.  And 
she's  good  in  the  main.  A  real  kind  wo- 
man, Mr.  Wayne." 

"  That  she  is.  And  the  shock  she  had, 
— we  can't  imagine  what  it  was  to  her." 

"  I  d'no.  It  was  bad  enough  for  me, 
too.  Just  such  a  day  as  this  it  was,  hot 
enough  to  make  a  clothes-horse  sweat.  I 
was  squirting  the  hose,  an'  all  at  once 
she  called  me  from  the  window.  '  Hank,' 
she  says,  'come  here.'  She  didn't  yell, 
nor  nothing,  but  my  hair  riz.  And  when 
I  went  up,  there  he  was,  stone  dead,  a- 
dangling." 

64 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  God  help  her." 

"  Yes.  He  was  her  boy,  after  all.  I 
allays  says  so,  when  they  pick  him  to 
pieces.  He  was  her  boy." 

"You  are  right,"  returned  Wayne, 
rising,  and  taking  the  empty  cup.  "  It 
is  not  for  us  to  judge  him.  Tell  Mrs. 
Gurney  that  I  will  come  in  half  an  hour." 

When  he  opened  the  gate  he  saw  her 
kneeling  on  the  ground  by  the  front  porch, 
a  trowel  in  her  hand. 

"  Good-morning,  Peter,"  she  cried,  with- 
out rising.  "  Something's  wrong  with 
these  late  roses.  They  are  what  Hank 
calls  '  minching.'  What  must  I  do  to 
them?" 

Wayne  sat  down  on  the  step  and  took 
off  his  hat.  "I'm  'minching'  myself; 
aren't  you  ?  It  is  so  hot, — I  never  knew 
such  a  September." 

"  I  never  minch.  As  to  Hank,  I  could 
slay  him.  I  hate  a  fool." 

"  But  he  isn't  a  fool.  He's  very  keen 
in  some  ways."  His  eyes  twinkled  for  a 
minute. 

5  65 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Oh,  /  know  what  you  mean.  I've 
scolded  him  to-day  until  I  am  quite  worn 
out.  I've  used  bad  language  to  him,  I 
have  threatened  him,  and  he  refuses  to  be 
angry.  He  listens  to  me  with  patience  ! 
To  me !" 

Her  smile  was  angry.  "  It  is  enough 
to  drive  me  mad.  /  understand  him  !" 

"  I  think  it  very  generous  of  him,  Mary- 
Anne." 

"  And  you  think,  as  he  does,  that  I  am 
a  keeper  of  anniversaries  ?  He  thinks  I 
ought  to  spend  the  day  in  the  green  room 
on  my  knees.  I  know  he  does." 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing,"  Wayne 
answered,  imperturbably. 

"  Rubbish.  Now  come  into  the  house, 
where  it's  cool,  and  advise  me  about  these 
roses.  Then  I  have  a  letter  from  a  clergy- 
man in  Dakota  who  wants  old  clothes.  I 
am  thinking,"  she  added,  leading  the  way 
to  the  side  door,  "  of  giving  him  those  you 
have  on  now." 

"  These  ?     Why,  these  are  new,  Mary 
Anne.     This  is  my  new  suit !" 
66 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  looked  ruefully  down  at  himself, 
and  took  hold  of  his  coat  as  if  he  expected 
her  to  tear  it  from  his  body  that  instant. 

"  New !  You  have  had  it  over  two 
years.  The  knees  bag  and  the  pockets 
shine.  Besides,  where  else  can  I  get 
clothes  for  my  clergyman  in  Dakota?" 

She  stopped  in  the  little  oil-cloth  car- 
peted entry  and  hung  up  her  old  garden 
hat.  Then  they  went  on  into  the  cool 
gloom  of  the  sitting-room. 

"Where  is  Beth?"  he  asked,  sitting 
down  and  reaching  for  the  pot-pourri  jar. 

"  She  is — slumming.  The  new  clergy- 
man is  zealous.  He  is  also  not  bad- 
looking." 

"  Mary  Anne  !" 

"  Peter  !" 

"  Don't  be  disagreeable." 

"  Don't  be  impertinent !" 

"You  deny  her  every  good  quality." 

She  shook  her  head,  her  face  suddenly 
serious.  "  No.  Don't  say  that,  Peter. 
God  knows  I  mean  to  be  just  to  the 
child." 

67 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  You  say  '  God  knows/ — Mary  Anne, 
_dear " 

His  knotty  hands  shook  as  he  clasped 
them. 

"  Nonsense.  Habit.  You  say  it.  Now 
don't  begin,  Peter  Wayne.  I  will  not  be 
lectured." 

"  No,  no  ;  not  lectured.  Only It  is 

seventeen  years  ago  to-day  since " 

"  Since  George  Gurney  hanged  himself, 
and  I  found  him.  Why  should  I  lie  to-day 
more  than  on  any  other  day  ?  I  have 
never  lied  in  my  life,  Peter.  But  about 
Beth, — I  am  not  unjust  to  her.  I  love 
her.  She  is  dear  to  me,  and  she  loves 
me.  Then,  she  is  kind.  I  never  knew 
her  do  an  unkind  deed,  and, — but  she 
poses.  Is  that  my  fault  ?  Now  it  is  the 
slumming  pose.  She  likes  it,  and  does 
no  harm,  at  least.  She  gives  her  pocket- 
money  to  the  poor,  and  hasn't  begun  to 
borrow  of  me, — as  yet." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  you.  Beth  is  dear  to 
me,  Mary  Anne,  but  you  are  dearer." 

Her  eyes  softened.  "I  know,  Peter. 
68 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

And  I  am  grateful  to  you.  Only,  you 
must  not  torment  me  about  that.  I  do 
not  believe  in  God, — do  not  try  to  make 
me  lie." 

"But  George  !  God  has  forgiven  him. 
He  suffered,  and  repented.  He  is  for- 
given." 

"  Hush."  She  had  risen,  and  stood 
before  him,  her  hands  clasped  tight. 

"  Hush.  I  am  an  old  woman  now,  and 
— weaker.  Do  you  not  see,  can  you  not 
see?  Peter,  if  there  is  a  God,  He  is  a 
just  God,  and  not  a  weak  Forgiver  of 
Mortal  Sins.  If  there  is  a  God,  my  boy, 
my  baby,  is  now  in  Hell,  burning.  Oh,  go 
away,  and  leave  me  alone." 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  Mary  Anne,  there  is  a  God,  and  He 
can  forgive  when  we  must  condemn.  His 
Mercy  endureth  forever.  Turn  to  Him, 
pray  to  Him,  He  is  waiting  for  you." 

"  No.  Do  you  think  that  if  I  could,  I 
would  be  forgiven  my  sins  now?  And 
he,  my  boy,  there  in  torments  ?  God 
69 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

help  the  world  if  mothers  were  of  such 
stuff.  No.  Now  go,  Peter  :  I  must  be 
alone." 

In  silence  he  obeyed  her,  as  he  had 
always  done.  His  heart  was  full,  his  eyes 
wet. 

In  the  street,  some  children,  playing  at 
ball,  turned  to  stare  at  him,  and  laughed 
at  his  great  red  nose. 

But  he  did  not  hear  ;  he  was  praying. 


70 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  December  of  that  year  Mrs.  Gurney 
and  Beth  went  to  Florida.  Orange- 
wood  is  one  of  those  delightful  communi- 
ties consisting  of  the  winter  homes  of 
several  rich  Northern  families,  and  an 
hotel,  which  form  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful kinds  of  Southern  social  life. 

The  Gurneys,  nominally  living  at  the 
Magnolia  House,  in  reality  slept  there, 
and  lived  with  the  Pollocks,  the  Palmers, 
and  the  Wests,  whose  lawns  slanted  down 
to  the  oblong  lake,  beyond  which,  through 
the  trees,  one  had  glimpses  of  the  Ge- 
rard's place,  Seven  Gables,  and  the  house 
of  their  son-in-law,  John  Carey,  a  Chicago 
pork-packer,  and  a  very  charming  man. 

Mrs.  Pollock  was  a  sister  of  Peter 
Wayne,  and  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Gur- 
ney. Mr.  Pollock,  a  tall,  bent,  old  man, 
with  pain  in  his  eyes  and  content 
71 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

written  all  over  his  pale  face,  at  once 
became  Beth's  adoration.  His  courteous 
Southern  manners,  his  patience  under  a 
very  real  heart-disease,  and  his  great  love 
for  his  dainty  little  old  wife, — all  these 
things  appealed  to  the  girl,  and  drew 
from  her  a  passionate  love. 

The  old  man  saw  her  good  side  only, 
and  grew  very  fond  of  the  clever,  frank 
child  just  turning  towards  womanhood. 
He  took  her  for  long  drives  through  the 
pine  forests  ;  by  small,  still  lakes,  vivid 
blue  amid  the  surrounding  darkness ; 
under  moss-hung  trees,  to  far  groves, 
where  he  cut  her  oranges,  and  showed 
her  how  to  drink  the  juice.  He  taught 
her  much  about  the  beautiful,  delicate 
orange-trees,  confided  his  fears  of  frost, 
let  her  "help"  in  the  packing-house,  and 
assured  her  that  she  was  useful.  Under 
his  gentle  influence  she  developed. 

Loving  the  negroes,  she  played  with 

their  funny,   round,  black  babies,  helped 

the  poor,  talked  to  the  men  about  the 

place,  and  soon  had,  as  it  were,  learned 

72 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

to  put  herself  in  the  negro's  place.  She 
saw  things  from  his  point  of  view,  caught 
his  accent,  and  could  tell  a  "  nigger  story" 
better  than  any  of  the  old  Orangewood 
people  themselves.  It  was  this  faculty 
of  adaptation  that  won  her  her  niche  in 
the  hearts  of  the  Pollocks. 

The  old  people  being  of  a  beautiful, 
simple  piety,  the  girl  read  to  them  from 
the  Bible  in  the  evenings,  when  her 
grandmother  was  not  there.  When  Mrs. 
Gurney  was  present,  Beth  found  some 
unobtrusive  excuse  for  omitting  the  read- 
ing, and  the  Pollocks  did  not  notice  it. 

One  person  not  only  saw,  however,  but 
understood  the  little  manoeuvre.  Phil 
Pollock,  the  only  son  of  the  house,  a 
hunchback,  who  sat  for  hours  in  utter 
silence,  his  big,  velvety  eyes  resting 
quietly  on  the  scene  before  him,  had 
studied  Beth  Gurney  from  the  day  of  her 
arrival,  and  his  intuition  took  him  far. 
He  knew  Mrs.  Gurney's  peculiarities, — 
he  noticed  her  manner  when  his  father 
and  mother  praised  Beth, — her  amused, 
73 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

half-bitter  expression  as  the  girl  "  showed 
off," — and  he  was  deeply  interested. 

Twice  he  had  heard  Beth  lie.  Small, 
insignificant  lies,  one  of  them  being 
merely  a  bit  of  picturesque  embroidery 
added  to  the  truth. 

And  he  saw  her  eyes  gleam  with  tears 
when  his  father  had  one  of  his  attacks  of 
breathlessness. 

"  Unlike  most  people,  she  is  made  of 
positive  good  and  positive  evil, — a  study 
in  black  and  white,"  he  told  himself. 

And,  being  a  thoughtful  man,  he  real- 
ized that  things  cannot  stand  still, — that 
progress  is  as  inevitable  as  death  ;  and  he 
wondered. 

One  hot  afternoon  Mrs.  Gurney  was 
at  the  hotel,  sleeping  off  a  headache,  and 
Phil  Pollock,  stretched  out  on  a  steamer 
chair  on  the  veranda,  a  book  in  his  hand, 
was  alone  with  Beth. 

It  was  early  in  February,  and  the  spaces 
between  the  roof-pillars  before  them  were 
nearly  filled  with  a  swaying  curtain  of  pen- 
dant vines,  hung  with  great  violet  bells. 
74 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

The  lawn,  green  as  the  greenest  moss, 
sloped  down  to  the  water  fringed  around 
with  low  shrubs  full  of  bloom.  It  was 
very  beautiful. 

Beth  was  reading,  her  book  on  her 
raised  knees,  her  thin  arms  crowning  her 
head,  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  long  chair. 

Pollock  watched  her  a  long  time  in 
silence  ;  then,  at  last,  he  spoke. 

"Beth,"  he  said,  "why  do  you  read 
the  Bible  to  my  father  ?" 

She  started,  and,  swinging  her  feet  to 
the  ground,  turned  towards  him.  "  Why, 
Mr.  Phil?" 

"  Yes.     Why  do  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Because  I  like  to.  Don't  you  like 
reading  the  Bible?" 

Pollock  pondered  for  a  second  ;  then  he 
answered,  slowly,  "  No.  And  neither  do 
you." 

Suddenly  something  chased  the  grieved 
look  from  her  eyes,  and  she  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Very  well.     I  admit  it.     Apres?" 

"  Apres, — is  it  pose,  or  a  wish  to  give 

75 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

pleasure  to  my  father  ?     Honour  bright, 
now  !" 

"Then,  honour  bright,  Mr.  Phil, — a 
little  pose,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  other. 
I  do  pose,  and  I'm  'indifferent  honest,' 
but  in  that" — her  eyes  filled — "I  adore 
your  father." 

"Thank  you,  Beth." 

There  was  a  few  seconds'  silence,  then 
Pollock  changed  his  seat,  and  sat  down 
opposite  her. 

"Listen,"  he  began,  slowly,  balancing 
his  words.  "  You  know  what  I  am,  Beth, 
— a  cripple,  a  deformity, — and  I  am,  more- 
over, nearly  twenty  years  older  than  you. 
Will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  I  have,  by 
quiet  watching,  found  in  you  ?" 

Her  face  lightened  with  interest. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Phil." 

"And, — you  won't  be  angry?  For  I 
shan't  flatter  you." 

"  I  will  not  be  angry, — go  on." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  folded 
his  thin,  white  hands,    the   fingers   laced 
loosely  together  in  a  way  he  had. 
76 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Then  :  First,  you  are  very  curious. 
That,  I  know,  would  astonish  even  your 
clever  grandmother,  who  believes  you 
quite  the  reverse.  Secondly :  you  are  a 
coquette  in  embryo.  Molly  West  told 
me  the  other  day  that  you  hated  men  and 
loathed  love-stories.  This  is  not  true." 

Beth's  mouth  twitched,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"Thirdly:  you  are  very  emotional. 
Fourthly :  you  are  capable  of  real  affec- 
tion,— to  a  certain  point.  Fifthly :  you 
are  going  to  be  a  remarkably  brilliant 
woman.  Sixthly  :  your  first  instinct  is  to 
hide  every  real  feeling  you  have,  and  to 
feign  feelings  you  have  not,  in  both  of 
which  cases  you  succeed.  Lastly  :  you  lie 
uncommonly  well,  and  without  the  least 
conscience  protest." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  at  her. 
She  was  a  little  pale,  and  her  eyes  had  a 
frightened  look. 

Then  suddenly  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  "  And  this  is  the  harvest  of  your 
quiet  eye  ?  Mr.  Phil,  you  are  a  man-witch  ! 
77 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

It  is  all  true,  every  word  of  it,  but — /ww 
could  you  tell  ?" 

"As  you  say, — the  harvest  of  a  quiet 
eye,  aided  by  glimpses  from  other  peo- 
ple's view-points." 

"  Whose  view-points  ?"  she  asked,  flush- 
ing with  the  intensity  of  her  interest. 

"  For  example, — my  father's.  He  is  a 
clever  man,  my  father,  and  yet  he  believes 
you  full  of  a  capacity  for  religion,  that 
your  word  is  truth  itself,  and,  in  short, 
that  you  are  pretty  near  perfection." 

"  Mr.  Phil,  I  never  tried  to — to  fool  Mr. 
Pollock.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  is,  but 
when  I  am  with  him  I  feel  good.  I  am 
good." 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  it.  You  are  a  chame- 
leon, Beth.  Whereas  old  Gerard  confided 
to  me  that  he  finds  you  are  une  endiablee 
gamine  /" 

"I  am — with  him.  He  is  a  wicked  old 
sinner,  and  he  likes  it."  She  paused,  her 
eyes  full  of  dreamy  amusement. 

Pollock  lighted  a  cigarette  and  began 
speaking  again.  "  Beth,  you  will  have  a 
78 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

life  not  like  the  life  of  every  girl.  You 
will  have  experiences,  trials,  and  pleasures 
keener  than  those  of  other  women.  Now 
listen.  Under  your  chatter  and  your  well- 
done  frankness  lies  a  very  deep  reserve. 
You  will  never  have  friends, — you  will 
play  to  a  public  all  your  days.  How 
would  you  like  having  me  for  your  one 
friend?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,  you  will  find  a  great  relief 
in  having  one  person  to  whom  you  show 
the  real  you,  to  whom  you  do  not  pose, 
to  whom  you  tell  the  truth.  Take  me  for 
that  person." 

She  hesitated.  "I  see.  But, — I  am 
young.  May  I  not  find  some  one  who 
would  suit  me  better  ?  Am  I  not  too  in- 
experienced to  judge  yet?" 

"  You  are  young,  but  I  am  not.  Let 
me  judge  for  you.  No  woman  could  be 
your  real  friend.  A  good  woman  you 
would  shock,  and  men  are  not  good  con- 
fidants for  a  young  woman.  A  man  who 
would  interest  himself  enough  in  you  to 

79 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

take  the  position  would  make  love  to  you. 
Now  I  will  not  fall  in  love  with  you,  and 
you  do  not  in  the  least  shock  me.  Another 
danger,  that  of  an  attempt  being  made 
by  some  one  to  reform  you,  does  not 
exist  with  me." 

"I  —  should  like ,"  she  began, 

slowly. 

He  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette, 
and  leaning  forward  took  her  hand. 

"  Listen.  One  confidence  deserves 
another.  Let  me  tell  you  my  story.  I 
trust  you,  you  see.  Beth,  there  is  a  wo- 
man I  love.  I  have  loved  her  for  fifteen 
years.  She  married  another  man,  and  I, 
grotesque  little  being  that  I  am,  still  love 
her  and  dream  of  her." 

"Oh!"  she  whispered,  staring  fixedly 
at  his  eyes. 

"  Yes.  And  I  will  tell  you  who  she  is. 
You  have  heard  of  Mrs.  Morris  Dever- 
eux?" 

"The  Beauty?" 

"  Yes.  It  is  she.  That  is  my  story,  dear. 
No  one  knows  it  but  you  and  herself — 
80 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

who  no  doubt  has  long  ago  forgotten  it 
— in  the  world." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  finished, 
and,  bending  her  head,  she  kissed  his  hand 
quickly.  Then  she  was  gone. 

Phil  Pollock  lighted  another  cigarette, 
and  leaned  back  well  content. 

He  knew  that  he  had  won. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PETER  WAYNE  was  at  the  station— 
or  depot,  as  the  Deepwaterites  usu- 
ally call  it — that  day  in  late  March  when 
the  Gurneys  came  home. 

"At  last,  here  you  are,"  he  said,  as  he 
met  them  and  took  their  bags.  "  Beth 
has  grown  six  inches,  and  you  look 
splendid,  Mary  Anne." 

Mrs.  Gurney  laughed.  "  My  beauty 
must  be  striking,  Peter.  Yes,  we  are 
both  well.  Ah,  there's  Hank.  How  do 
you  do,  Hank?" 

The  man  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and 
shook  hands  with  the  two  women.  Then 
they  made  their  way  past  the  omnibus  to 
the  "hack"  awaiting  them. 

"Hank'll  bring  the  trunks.  Go  on, 
Thomas." 

Beth  leaned  back,  and  beamed  at  the 
83 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

familiar  streets.  "  How  nice  it  is  to  be 
at  home,  Uncle  Peter  !  You  have  such  a 
gorgeous  new  cravat  that  I  hardly  recog- 
nized you.  What's  the  news  ?" 

"  Nothing  in  particular.  The  affairs  of 
W.  O.  Blair  were  found  to  be  much  in- 
volved after  his  death.  Gordon  has  sold 
the  house.  It's  a  good  thing  Kitty  has 
married  so  well." 

"I  wonder  Mr.  Gordon  doesn't  marry, 
too,"  observed  Beth,  bowing  to  a  man 
driving  a  grocery  wagon. 

"  They  do  say  that  he's  rather  attentive 
to  Anna  Curtis, — but  it  may  be  only  a 
yarn." 

Beth  burst  out  laughing,  her  white 
teeth  flashing.  "  Anna  Curtis !  That 
would  be  casting  pearls, — in  the  way  of 
good  looks,  I  mean.  She  is  a  most 
ghastly  jay." 

"I  wish,  Beth,"  put  in  her  grand- 
mother, "  that  you  would  wear  your  com- 
pany manners  a  little  more  for  our  own 
benefit.  I  hate  such  expressions.  And 
Anna  is  a  very  nice  girl,  indeed." 
83 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  If  her  beauty  is  skin  deep,  she  must 
be  really  lovely,  Gran, — for  she  has  skin 
like  tripe.  Here  we  are, — there's  Katie 
at  the  door." 

Mrs.  Gurney  looked  with  satisfaction 
at  the  crocuses  in  the  borders  as  they 
went  up  the  path. 

"Well,  Peter,"  she  said,  comfortably, 
"  there's  no  place  like  home." 

"  No  place,  for  me,  like  your  home, 
Mary  Anne." 

He  went  in  with  them,  and  stayed  for 
luncheon.  After  it,  Beth  went  out  for  a 
walk,  and  Wayne  and  Mrs.  Gurney  talked 
her  over. 

"I  think  she  has  improved,"  she  said, 
hesitatingly,  "  She  was  very  sweet  with 
Nellie  and  Mr.  Pollock.  And  she  is  fatter, 
don't  you  think  ?" 

"  She  has  a  very  distinguished  carriage. 
Isn't  she  laced  ?" 

"A  little.  Most  girls  are  at  her  age. 
She'll  be  seventeen  in  two  months.  Dear 
me,  how  time  flies  !" 

"When  you  are  here,"  he  improved. 
84 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

<l  Peter,  Phil  is  coming  to  see  us 
during  the  summer." 

"  Phil !" 

"  Yes.  And  I  fear, — I  rather  think  he 
is  in  love  with  her." 

"  Poor  boy !  It  would  not  be  bad, 
Mary  Anne,  if  she  could  overlook  his 
— his  misfortune.  He  is  very  clever, 
and — rich." 

Mrs.  Gurney  laid  down  her  embroidery, 
and  made  a  comic  face  of  despair  at 
him. 

"  Beth  !  Violet  Elisabeth  Gurney  marry 
a  cripple  !  My  dear  Peter,  how  little  you 
understand  her  !" 

"  Didn't  she  like  him  ?" 

"  Of  course  she  did.  But  she  is  one 
of  those  natures  to  whom  suffering — 
moral  or  physical — is  disgusting.  It's  a 
strong  word,  but  it's  true.  When  I  was 
ill,  she  was  pale  when  she  had  to  stay 
with  me.  She  flees  disagreeable  sights 
and  sounds  as  other  people  flee  un- 
pleasant odours." 

"  You  were  always  hard  on  her.  What 
85 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

about  her  slumming,  as  you  used  to  call 
it?" 

"  Ah  !  That  was  a  fad,  hence  unreal ; 
and  it  is  only  the  real  that  she  dislikes. 
And  I  think  I  do  her  justice,  Peter.  She 
is  going  to  be  a  very  charming  woman. 
This  very  sensibility  to  disagreeable  things 
lends  her  that  exquisite  tact  that  only 
comes  from  self-interest.  She  will  avoid 
people's  moral  corns  all  her  life." 

Wayne  was  silent  for  a  time,  sniffing 
thoughtfully  at  the  rose-jar. 

At  length  Mrs.  Gurney  said,  "  By  the 
way,  do  you  think  that  Gordon  Blair 
really  will  marry  Anna  ?" 

"  I  only  know  what  people  say.  His 
mourning,  of  course,  keeps  him  rather 
out  of  sight ;  but  Mrs.  Cutler  told  me  that 
he  is  a  great  deal  at  the  Curtis's.  It 
wouldn't  be  bad  for  him,  if  he's  fond  of 
her.  I  don't  think  he's  clever  enough  to 
make  a  fortune  for  himself." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  Where  is  Billy 
Curtis?" 

Wayne  laughed.     "  Here.     I  saw  him 
86 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

yesterday.  He  asked  when  you  were 
coming.  He  has  proposed  to  Beth,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"I  suppose  so.  She  says  he  has 
not." 

Wayne  could  not  answer  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  went  on :  "  He  is  a  nice  boy  ; 
but  they  are  both  too  young." 

Mrs.  Gurney  laughed.  "They  may 
have  been  engaged  for  two  years,  for  all 
we  know,  Peter.  Beth  does  not  betray 
her  secrets." 

The  next  day  Beth  blossomed  out  into 
the  beauty  of  new  summer  gowns,  which 
she  had  had  made  in  New  York  on  their 
way  home. 

The  summer  was  a  merry  one.  She 
and  two  other  girls  learned  riding,  and, 
with  several  young  men,  and  a  rather 
young  matron  as  chaperone, — at  whose 
appearance  in  such  a  role  the  gods  must 
have  laughed, — made  a  great  many  ex- 
cursions to  different  points  of  interest  in 
the  neighbourhood,  coming  home  by 
moonlight.  Then  they  played  tennis, 
87 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

had   theatricals,  and  life  was  altogether 
delightful. 

Pollock,  who  came  in  August,  con- 
fessed her,  one  day,  and  was  much 
pleased  with  the  eclat  with  which  she 
threw  herself  into  her  part. 

"Young  Curtis  is  in  love  with  you, 
isn't  he?" 

"Yes.  And  oh,  Mr.  Phil,  no  one  but 
you  knows  that  he  has — asked  me. 
Bah !  I  hate  it !  His  eyes  get  wet,  and 
it  makes  me  quite  sick  to  see  him." 

"  Any  other  lovers  ?" 

«N — no.     Not  exactly." 

"  Flirtation  ?" 

"Yes.  Gordon  Blair.  He  went  away 
in  the  middle  of  July." 

"  And  you  like  him  the  best  ?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  He  is  perfectly 
beautiful.  And  when  he  looks  at  me, — 
my  backbone  quivers." 

Pollock  did  not  smile.  "  And  his  back- 
bone ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  think  so.     He 
is  awfully  old.     But  I  see  him  often,  and 
88 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

he  always  talks  to  me, — when  Anna  Cur- 
tis isn't  there." 

"  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  She  is  Billy's  sister.  Hideous,  but 
rich.  He  is  poor." 

"Aha!" 

"  Yes.  But, — I  know  he  likes  me  best. 
Oh,  Mr.  Phil,  I  do  so  like  telling  you. 
Sometimes  I  can't  sleep  :  I  just  think  all 
night  of  him.  Do  you  think  I  am  in 
love  with  him?" 

Her  cheeks  were  deep  crimson,  but 
her  eyes  were  steady.  Curiosity,  interest 
in  her  own  sentiments,  these  were  the 
emotions  she  felt. 

"  No,  you  are  not.  The  next  man  who 
comes  will — wipe  him  out." 

"  Yes, — it's  always  so.     Isn't  it  queer  ?" 

Pollock  did  not  see  her  again  until  the 
next  summer. 


CHAPTER   IX 

MR.  FRANCOIS  POULARD,  stew- 
ard of  the  Pocahontas  Club,  stood 
in  the  door  of  that  picturesque  stone  and 
shingle  edifice  and  looked  up  the  road. 
It  was  six  o'clock,  and  the  river  to  his  left 
was  a  mass  of  gold  leaf  in  the  evening 
sun.  Francois,  a  man  of  taste,  gazed  ap- 
provingly about  him  as  he  smoked. 

"  Pas  mal  $a,"  he  murmured.  "  Not  so 
bad  for  America."  Then  he  sighed,  for 
he  was  an  exile. 

Two  years  before,  when  the  enterprise 
of  Mr.  Benjamin  Welch  had  erected  the 
club-house,  three  miles  out  from  the  city, 
Frangois  Poulard,  whilom  valet-de-cham- 
bre  to  the  due  d'Aragnac,  once  maitre- 
d'hotel  to  the  Princess  Montalerto,  Black- 
est of  the  Black  at  Rome,  was  by  chance 
in  Deepwater  giving  French  lessons. 

A  stroke  of  genius  on  some  one's  part 
90 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

effected  his  appointment  to  the  post  of 
steward  to  the  club,  and  here  he  was 
still. 

The  man  had  seen  the  world,  in  his 
way,  and  Deepwater  amused  him  deeply. 

The  old-fashioned,  dull,  respectable  ele- 
ment of  the  town  came  but  little  under 
his  eyes. 

The  "gay  set," — the  word  "smart"  in 
its  English  sense  had  not  yet  reached 
Deepwater, — composed  of  eight  or  ten 
young  married  women,  as  many  girls,  and 
all  the  young  men  of  the  town,  made  the 
club  their  summer  headquarters,  and 
Francois,  in  his  note-book,  kept  a  curious 
record  of  their  doings  there. 

Such  a  condition  of  society  is  by  no 
means  rare  in  small  American  cities. 

The  dulness  of  the  old-fashioned  set, 
given  over  to  Church  affairs,  the  Y.  M.  C. 
A.,  and  the  mildest  of  tea-parties,  is  sur- 
passed in  degree  only  by  the  astounding 
fastness  of  the  "gay."  The  champagne, 
the  cocktails,  the  pronounced  flirtations 
in  which  the  couples  changed  partners 
91 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

from  time  to  time  as  in  a  dance, — these 
things  at  first  astounded  the  Parisian. 

In  other  countries  he  had  seen  much 
the  same  thing,  but  in  the  half-world. 

In  other  countries  lines  are  clearer  de- 
fined. And  this  was  a  phase  of  life  entirely 
new  to  the  man,  and  it  interested  him. 

As  he  stood  in  the  yellow  light  this  par- 
ticular evening,  he  drew  his  note-book 
from  his  pocket,  and,  leaning  against  a 
wooden  verandah-pillar,  wrote  neatly, 
"The  affair  of  Madame  Barclay  with 
young  Hill  is  finished.  She  has  now  Mr. 
Page,  and  young  Hill  has  been  sent  away 
by  his  Mamma." 

When  he  had  made  his  note,  he  walked 
along  the  verandah  and  called  in  at  the 
window, — 

"  Eustace !" 

"  Sah !" 

"  Mr.  Blair  complained  that  the — how 
you  say — claret  was  too  cold  last  time." 

"Yes,  sah." 

Eustace,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  appeared 
at  the  window,  polishing  a  decanter  with 
92 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

a  cloth.  Eustace  was  so  very  black  that 
the  Frenchman  was  always  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  surprise  that  the  man  under- 
stood his  orders. 

Just  then,  far  down  at  the  end  of  the 
lane  leading  from  the  highway,  a  moving, 
dark  spot  became  visible.  "Tiens  !  They 
come,  Eustace,"  and  the  steward  went 
back  to  his  post. 

"That  will  be  Mrs.  Carroll  and  Mr. 
White.  Ten  to  one,  mon  vieux  T 

He  was  right.  The  dark  spot  devel- 
oped into  a  buggy,  and  in  the  buggy, 
beautifully  dressed,  sat  the  very  attractive 
Carrie  Carroll,  with  her  present  slave,  the 
President  of  the  First  National  Bank. 
The  next  pair  to  arrive  was  an  exquisitely 
pretty  girl  with  the  most  Madonna-like 
face,  and  a  burly,  red-necked,  handsome 
Irishman,  who  had  twice  been  Mayor. 

Francois  gave  a  genuine  sigh  as  he 
recognized  the  pair.  Not  for  their  un- 
chaperoned  condition, — even  his  Euro- 
pean soul  was  accustomed  to  that  curious 
anomaly, — but  as  a  tribute  to  the  last 

93 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

dinner  given  at  the  Club,  when  the  lovely 
girl  had  been  helped  into  the  high  dog- 
cart at  nearly  twelve  o'clock  at  night, — 
too  much  intoxicated  to  walk  alone. 

Little  by  little  the  big  common-room 
filled,  and  the  air  hummed  with  talk  and 
laughter.  Francois  handed  liqueurs  him- 
self, and  there  was  in  his  rigid  face  not  a 
trace  of  his  thoughts,  which  was  quite  as , 
well. 

"  Mame,  another  cocktail?"  John  Les- 
ter called  across  the  room  to  another 
man's  wife.  "  Good  for  your  head- 
ache." 

"  Don't  care  if  I  do,  John.  Thanks. 
Lots  of  bitters,  please." 

"Note,"  thought  Francois.  "Ameri- 
can ladies  wear  very  pretty  petticoats." 

Just  then  a  coach  came  rumbling  up. 
A  coach  as  perfectly  appointed  as  one 
could  see  at  the  Derby,  and  crowded  with 
perhaps  as  well-dressed  a  lot  of  men  and 
women. 

The  conversation  was  rather  noisy,  and 
too  much  of  it  devoted  to  wine  and  cock- 

94 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

tails,  but  the  women  were  charming,  taken 
as  a  whole. 

"  Dinner  is  served." 

Then  at  last  the  tables  were  filled,  and 
the  soup-silence  fell. 

The  steward  smfled  as  he  recognized 
the  raison  d'etre  of  the  dinner  at  the  yel- 
low table. 

"  So  that  was  true, ' '  he  thought  "  Mon 
Dieu,  she  is  plain.  And  he  !' 

Across  the  room  was  a  small  party  of 
six,  composed  of  two  old  people  and  four 
young.  The  beautiful  girl  in  the  big 
feather)''  hat  was  Beth  Gurney,  but  a  new 
Beth. 

A  slim,  well-developed  girl,  with 
rounded  hips  and  broad  shoulders.  A 
girl  too  pale  still,  but  with  a  sort  of  light 
in  her  transparent  skin  that  was  beautiful, 
and  lent  a  wonderful  brightness  to  the 
dark  eyes. 

She  had  moreover  acquired  a  "  manner" 
during  the  last  year  which  she  had  spent 
at  a  New  York  boarding-school 

The  man  beside  her  was  a  stranger,  a 

95 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

gay  little  chap  with  a  seal  ring  and  an 
eyeglass. 

It  was  the  first  monocle  Deepwater  had 
seen,  and  excited  a  certain  amount  of 

curiosity. 

"Tremendously  handsome  man,  Miss 
Gurney,"  he  was  saying;  "a  Deepwater 
man?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  is  our  Village  Pride,  I 
may  say.  His  sister  is  Mrs.  Horace 
Wendell,  of  Boston.  You  may  know 
her?" 

"  I  don't,  but  I  wish  I  did !  And  is  he 
actually  going  to  marry  the  girl  on  his 
left?" 

"  He  is,  indeed.    She  is  very  nice,  too." 

Humphrey  nodded.  "Very  good,  no 
doubt,  according  to  the  law  of  compen- 
sations." 

Beth  laughed  lazily.  "  You  are  cruel. 
Besides,  I,  personally,  am  not  at  all  sure 
that  the  advantages  are  all  on  one  side. 
Anna  Curtis  is  not  at  all  stupid,  and  Mr. 
Blair,  I  believe,  is  none  too  clever." 

The  girl  opposite  shrugged  her  shoul- 
96 


ders.  "  You  believe  ?  You  certainly 
ought  to  know,  Beth  !" 

Humphrey  turned  his  glass  on  Beth 
inquisitively. 

"  I  ?  Oh,  yes,  I've  seen  him  several 
times  since  I've  been  '  grown  up  ;'  but  he 
might  almost  be  my  father,  Clara,  and  of 
course  considers  me  a  mere  babe." 

Clara  Hill  laughed  again,  and  turned  to 
the  man  by  her.  The  Hills,  pere  et  mere, 
ate  their  dinner  placidly,  and  paid  little 
heed  to  the  talk.  They  were  of  the  old- 
fashioned  set,  and  did  not,  as  a  rule,  have 
such  good  dinners  as  this  very  excellent 
table  d'  hole. 

Beth  watched  the  yellow  table  unob- 
trusively. Billy  Curtis,  who  had  recently 
proposed  to  her  for  the  third  time,  was 
there,  and  indeed  his  presence  explained 
her  absence.  But  while  her  quiet  eyes 
took  in  every  particular  of  the  other  table, 
she  talked  on  with  Humphrey  without 
showing  the  least  distraction. 

There  was  much  champagne  drunk  by 
the  different  groups  of  people,  and  much 
7  97 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

good  wine,  well  served.    Towards  the  end 
of  the  dinner  toasts  were  drunk. 

Francois  did  not  miss  a  note,  and,  like 
all  people  of  theories,  what  he  saw  pre- 
sented itself  to  him  in  a  confirming  light. 

When  at  length  Blair,  who  was  seated 
beyond  a  pillar,  succeeded  in  bowing  to 
Beth,  Frangois  caught  her  cheerful  return 
nod,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "  Tiens,  he 
has  burnt  his  fingers  a  bit  then,  Monsieur 
le  Fiance,  but  she,  she  is  grande  dame, 
and  cold !" 

Beth  flirted  delicately  with  Humphrey 
through  dinner,  and  when  they  were  once 
more  in  the  big  hall,  he  sat  down  by  her 
and  continued  his  talk. 

Creme  de  Menthe,  Cura9oa,  and  coffee 
were  served,  and  Francois  watched  the 
floating  together  of  the  various  "pairs" 
whom  the  dinner  might  have  separated. 
The  big  willow  rocking-chairs  were  rocked 
a  trifle  farther  back  than  before  dinner, 
the  poses  were  rather  relaxed,  some  of 
the  men  were  flushed,  and  some  of  the 
women  a  little  noisy. 
98 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

The  steward  watched  curiously.  He 
had  only  lately  convinced  himself  that  be- 
hind this  vulgarity  there  was  in  reality 
very  little  evil. 

Anna  Curtis,  in  whose  honour  the  yel- 
low dinner  had  been  given,  sat  back 
in  her  place  and  strove  to  look  at 
ease. 

Her  rough,  reddish  skin,  her  heavy, 
yellow  hair,  with  green  shades, — the  yel- 
low of  fresh  olive  oil,  her  uninteresting 
grey  eyes, — of  all  these  things  she  was 
conscious. 

Beside  her,  head  and  shoulders  taller 
than  any  other  man  in  the  room,  stood 
Blair,  stirring  his  coffee,  and  looking  per- 
haps more  perfectly  comfortable  than  he 
felt. 

At  length  she  spoke.     "  Gordon,  have 
you  noticed  how  pretty  Beth  Gurney  has 
grown  ?" 
'  "Very." 

"  She  is  such  a  nice  little  thing,  too ;  so 
unaffected.  Ah,  here  she  comes  !" 

Blair  drew  back  to  let  the  girl  pass,  and 

99 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

then,  as  she  sat  down,  some  one  spoke  to 

him. 

"I  haven't  been  able  yet,  Miss  Anna, 
to  wish  you  joy,"  he  heard  her  say,  in  her 
well-modulated  voice.  "  But  I  do,  indeed. 
Of  course,  I  think  Mr.  Gordon  is  splen- 
did, you  know.  All  of  us  young  fry 
do." 

"Thanks,  Beth." 

"  I'm  sure  you  will  be  awfully  happy. 
You  see,  I  am  rather  enthusiastic  because 
he  has  been  nice  to  me,  and  not  snubbed 
me,  as  the  older  men  often  do  the — 
•kids'!" 

The  slang  word  was  not  ugly  as  she 
said  it,  with  a  little  deprecating  laugh. 
Then  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"I  must  go  back;  good-night.  Good- 
night, Mr.  Gordon  ;  I  wish  you  much  joy, 
too."  She  gave  him  her  hand  and  smiled 
at  him,  then  went  back  to  her  seat. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  slipped  unseen 
from  her  place  and  went  out  on  the  ve- 
randah. She  walked  to  the  farther  end, 
and  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar,  looking 


100 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

up  at  the  sky.  "  Oh,  my  God  !  my  God  !'* 
she  whispered. 

Then  hearing  a  step  she  turned,  know- 
ing who  it  was. 

"  Beth,  why  do  you  treat  me  this  way?" 

Her  face  looked  ten  years  older  than  in 
the  ingenue  pose  of  a  few  minutes  before. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  she  answered, 
drawling. 

"I  mean, — I  mean  you  wished  me  joy, 
— -joy,  as  you  would  have  to  a  perfect 
stranger, — it ' ' 

She  laughed  in  the  moonlight,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  "  Then, — dear  Mr.  Gor- 
don,— really  and  truly  I  hope  you'll  be 
very  happy.  Will  that  do  ?" 

Blair  held  her  hand  in  both  his  for  a 
minute,  and  then  with  a  curt  "  Thank  you" 
left  her. 


101 


PART   TWO 


103 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  carriages  were  crowding  down 
the    Corso,    back   from    the    Pincio, 
and   the   wonderful,    narrow    street   was 
thronged  with  pedestrians. 

Overhead,  the  pale  primrose  sky,  under- 
foot, the  dampness  of  a  Sirocco  day,  and 
in  the  air  the  languid  softness  of  Feb- 
ruary. 

Billy  Curtis,  as  broad  across  the 
shoulders  of  his  light  coat  as  any  two 
of  the  Italians  who  ran  around  him  as 
he  made  his  way  towards  the  Piazza 
Colonna,  was  nearly  four  years  older 
than  the  day  when  he  had  put  the  violets 
on  Beth  Gurney's  desk  in  the  Deepwater 
Academy. 

His  moustache  was  shaven,  and  his 
chin  had  grown  squarer.  Otherwise  he 
was  much  the  same,  and  a  typical  Amer- 
ican in  his  well-cut  clothes  and  high,  turn- 
down collar. 

105 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

At  length,  tired  of  contending  with  the 
crowd,  he  left  the  street,  and  went  into  a 
confectioner's.  He  sat  down  at  a  marble 
table,  ordered  a  Vermouth,  and  sat  for 
some  time  watching  the  pretty  women 
who  came  in  to  buy  bonbons  and  small, 
glazed  cakes. 

It  amused  him  to  see  the  intensity  with 
which  the  important  choice  was  made 
between  a  pink  cake  or  a  pale-green  one, 
and  the  way  the  small,  gloved  hands 
fluttered  over  the  gaudy  array  like  butter- 
flies. But  behind  his  amusement  was  a 
care,  and  his  face  showed  it. 

Presently  two  men,  seated  at  a  table 
behind  him,  attracted  his  attention.  The 
one  a  thick-set  young  fellow,  in  the  black 
and  magenta  Bersaglieri  uniform,  the 
other  a  much  smaller  man,  who  wore  the 
unmistakable  look  of  being  an  artist. 

They  were  talking  earnestly  in  Italian, 
with  vivid  gesticulations,  and  at  length 
the  officer,  taking  a  pencil  from  his  pocket, 
began  to  draw  on  the  marble  table. 

The  other  man  watched  him,  an  amused 
106 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

smile  under  his  small  moustache,  and  then, 
suddenly  snatching  the  pencil,  burst  out 
in  French :  "  Mon  Dieu!  it  is  a  libel. 
See  here, — there  she  is  !  There's  her 
neck,  and  the  line  of  her  hair,  and  her 
adorable  nose,  in  one  flourish." 

Curtis  understood  vaguely,  and  the  de- 
light on  the  Italian's  face  prevented  his 
turning  his  eyes  away. 

"  Oui,  oui,  Maxence,  ze  comprong, — 
ah,  belle,  belle !" 

The  Frenchman  laughed,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  rose,  followed  by  his  com- 
panion. 

When  they  had  left  the  shop,  Curtis, 
going  to  pay  at  the  cashier's  desk, 
made  a  slight  detour,  to  glance  at  the 
sketch. 

It  was  Beth' s  head !  He  stared  at  it 
for  a  second,  then  flung  a  lira  at  the 
smiling  cashier,  and  rushed  out  into  the 
now  lamp-lit  streets. 

Quite  by  chance  he  turned  to  the  right, 
and,  crowding  his  way  through  the  slow- 
moving  mass  of  promenaders,  came  on 
107 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

the  Frenchman  at  the  corner  of  the  Via 
de'  Condotti. 

"  Pardon,"  he  stammered  in  French, 
"  may  I  speak  to  you  a  minute  ?" 

"  Certainement" 

"  Do  you  speak  English  ?" 

"No,  unfortunately." 

Curtis  mustered  his  courage,  and  went 
on :  "  You  sketched  the  head  of  a  lady 
on  the  table  just  now,  in  the  cafe, — do 
you  understand  me  ?" 

"Yes.  I  meant  no  offence,  if  the  lady 
is  known  to  you.  It  was  that  I  forgot  to 
efface  it." 

Curtis  did  not  heed  his  bow.  "  No, 
no, — it  is  not  that ;  but  I  know  the  lady, 
Miss  Gurney,  and  I  want  you  to  give  me 
her  address." 

"  Monsieur,  a  thousand  regrets,  but  it 
understands  itself  that  I  cannot  do  so." 

"But  I  know  her,  I  tell  you.  I  have 
known  her  all  my  life." 

"Then— 

The  man's  gesture  annoyed  the  Amer- 
ican intensely. 

1 08 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Her  grandmother  gave  me  her  ad- 
dress at  the  Hotel  Bristol, — do  you  under- 
stand me  ? — but  she  has  left  there." 

"  Monsieur  speaks  a  remarkably  good 
French,"  answered  the  Frenchman,  bow- 
ing again,  "  and  I  regret  to  be  disobliging. 
Mais " 

Then  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  slipped 
away. 

Curtis  stood  still  for  a  minute,  and,  with 
a  few  words  under  his  breath,  went  on. 

It  was  maddening  to  him,  and  perfectly 
incomprehensible,  that  this  detestable 
little  Frenchman  should  know  where  she 
was,  and  he,  Billy  Curtis,  who  had  played 
with  her  when  they  both  wore  sashes, 
should  be  seeking  her  in  vain.  In  a 
furious  temper,  he  went  back  to  his  hotel. 

Beth  had  come  to  Europe  shortly  after 
his  sister's  marriage,  and  now  that  event 
was  nearly  two  years  in  the  past.  For 
nearly  two  years  he  had  not  seen  her, 
and  now,  when  he  had  come  to  Italy  on 
purpose,  she  had  disappeared. 

"Her  grandmother  was  crazy  to  let 
109 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

her  come  with  that  Sally  Frazer,  anyhow," 
he  growled,  as  he  made  his  hasty  toilet 
for  dinner.  "  She  always  had  bats  in  her 
belfry,  even  if  she  is  Kitty  Blair's  sister- 
in-law.  And  a  cracked  old  maid  is  always 
wilder  than  other  fools." 

He  ate  his  dinner  in  moody  silence, 
and  after  it  went  out  for  another 
walk. 

He  had  thoughts  of  telegraphing  Mrs. 
Gurney,  but  he  knew  that  the  old  lady 
would  not  cable  back.  She  would  write. 

It  was  maddening.  Only  one  thing 
was  sure, — Beth  was  still  in  Rome.  He 
would  stay  on,  and  haunt  the  most  fre- 
quented streets  until  he  met  her. 

At  length,  walking  without  seeing 
whither  he  was  going,  he  came  to  a 
theatre,  and  following  the  crowd  being 
easier  than  threading  his  way  out  of  it, 
he  went  in. 

The  play  was  "La  Locandiera,"  with 
Duse  in  the  title  role.  In  spite  of  his 
anxieties,  in  spite  of  his  knowing  not  one 
word  of  Italian,  Curtis  was  carried  away 


1 10 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

by  the  wonderful  woman,  and  thoroughly 
enjoyed  his  evening. 

At  length  the  play  was  over,  and  he 
rose  with  the  rest.  He  was  nearing  the 
door,  when  suddenly,  ahead  of  him,  he 
caught  sight  of  her  whom  he  was  seek- 
ing. It  was  she  beyond  a  doubt,  a  light 
scarf  over  her  loosely  done  hair,  her 
cheeks  scarlet  with  pleasure  and  excite- 
ment. Beside  her  was  Miss  Frazer, — old 
Sally  Frazer, — in  a  light  blouse,  with  a 
black  lace  mantilla  looped  over  her  gray 
hair.  And  with  them, — the  obnoxious 
Frenchman ! 

Curtis  scattered  the  immediate  crowd 
as  a  stone  thrown  into  water  scatters 
drops,  and,  disregarding  the  angry  re- 
marks about  him,  pressed  towards  the 
door.  In  spite  of  his  efforts,  however, 
he  was  too  late.  They  had  gone,  disap- 
peared ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  give  up 
the  search  for  that  night. 

He  went  home  through  the  half-empty 
streets,  past  the  beautiful  fountains,  by 
the  Forum  of  Trajan,  seeing  nothing, 
in 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hearing  nothing.  He  had  seen  Beth,  and 
that  was  enough  to  render  him  blind  and 
deaf  even  to  Rome.  He  had  loved  her 
all  his  life,  he  thought,  and  then, — she 
had  grown  so  beautiful ! 


112 


CHAPTER   II 

IT  may  be  doubted  whether,  among  all 
the  hordes  of  vandals  and  ignorants 
who  descend  on  Rome  in  her  old  age, 
there  was  ever  any  one  who  less  appre- 
ciated and  enjoyed  what  he  saw  than  Billy 
Curtis,  the  first  ten  days  of  his  stay. 

And  yet  he  was,  though  not  a  man  of 
artistic  tastes,  a  University  man,  whose 
family  had  been  rich  for  several  genera- 
tions, and  a  man  who  was  not  more  dull 
of  brain  than  nine  youths  of  his  age  out 
of  every  ten. 

Yet  to  him  Rome  was  a  desert.  The 
pictures  passed  before  his  eyes  unseen, 
the  Vatican  merely  confused  him,  and  the 
Forum  made  on  his  imagination  no  im- 
pression whatever.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  Curtis  was  bored. 

Every  afternoon  he  went  to  the  Pincio 
and  searched  for  Beth,  then  he  visited  the 
theatres  in  turn,  paced  the.  CQr§P  by  the, 
8  113 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hour,  and  went  to  the  English  church  on 
Sunday.  In  vain. 

Rome  is  a  great  city,  and  with  all  his 
pains  he  did  not  so  much  as  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her.  He  had  several  good  letters  of 
introduction,  but  they  lay  untouched  in 
his  trunk. 

The  only  wish  he  had  in  the  world  was 
to  see  Beth  Gurney,  and  every  day  he 
realized  more  clearly  that  he  might  search 
for  months  without  finding  her. 

At  length,  one  beautiful  moonlight  night, 
the  concierge  of  his  hotel,  a  man  of  taste, 
persuaded  him  to  go  to  the  Coliseum. 

"The  first  dark  night  they  will  light 
it  with  electricity,  which  is  a  sight  to  be 
avoided,"  the  intelligent  Swiss  told  him. 

Curtis  took  a  cab,  and  at  length  found 
himself  in  the  great  arena. 

It  was  almost  empty,  by  chance,  and 
the  young  fellow  felt  his  heart  beat  as  all 
at  once  Roman  History  became  to  him, 
under  the  mighty  influence  of  the  old 
building,  not  a  series  of  lessons,  but  a 
living,  palpitating  force  in  the  world.  He 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

sat  down  and  smoked  thoughtfully  for  an 
hour,  watching  the  shadows  sharp  cut 
against  the  brilliant  moonlight,  and  dream- 
ing dreams.  At  length  he  rose,  and 
started  towards  the  exit.  Several  groups 
of  people  were  now  scattered  in  little 
blots  of  shade  over  the  vast  moonlit  space, 
and  the  silence  was  broken  by  voices. 

Just  as  Curtis  reached  the  door,  two 
people  came  down  the  steps  to  the 
right. 

"  Beth  !"  he  cried. 

She  started,  flushed,  paled,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  "  You,  Mr.  Curtis  !  What 
a  surprise  !  Neroni,"  she  added,  turning  to 
her  companion,  a  tall  man  wrapped  in  a 
dark  cloak,  at  the  collar  of  which  gleamed 
a  brass  clasp.  "  Dov'e  la  Sara?" 

"Sarah,  Miss  Frazer  was  with  us  a 
minute  ago,  with  Count  Savrigny,"  she 
explained,  hastily,  to  Curtis.  "  How  long 
have  you  been  in  Rome  ?" 

"  Won't  you  introduce  me  to — your 
friend?" 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  then  turn- 
"5 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

ing  to  the  Italian,  said  in  French,  "  Mon- 
sieur Curtis,  Neroni,  one  of  my  friends 
from  America.  Lieutenant  Neroni." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Curtis 
saw  that  the  Italian  was  the  officer  of  the 
cafe. 

As  the  introduction  was  being  made, 
Miss  Frazer  bustled  up,  leaning  on  the 
Frenchman's  arm. 

"Ah,  Beth,  what  is  it?  who — Mr.  Cur- 
tis ?  You  in  Rome  ?  I  am  delighted  to 
see  you.  Maxence,  an  American  friend, 
Monsieur  Curtis.  Comte  de  Savrigny. 
This  is  delightful." 

This  time  Curtis  bowed  without  offering 
his  hand.  The  Frenchman's  eyes  danced 
as  he  saluted  gravely.  Then  there  was 
an  awkward  silence,  broken  by  a  chuck- 
ling laugh  from  Miss  Frazer. 

"You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  we 
have  an  apartment,  Mr.  Curtis  !  It  is  a 
secret,  though,  so  you  mustn't  tell !  Come, 
let  us  go.  We  will  have  a  chafing-dish 
supper.  Maxence,  be  an  angel  and  get 
some  cheese,  will  you?  Then  we'll  do 
116 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

well  enough.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
again,  Mr.  Curtis  !"  She  took  Curtis's 
arm,  and  they  led  the  way  out  to  the  cabs, 
the  other  two  following. 

When  they  were  seated,  and  the  horse 
went  clattering  madly  back  towards  the 
city,  Curtis  tried  to  understand  what  it  all 
meant. 

Opposite  him  sat  the  two  women.  Miss 
Frazer,  now  radiant,  rattled  out  to  him  the 
delightful  tale  of  her  final  emancipation 
from  the  trammels  of  society.  Beth,  her 
Tarn  o'Shanter  too  much  tilted  over  her 
too  loose  hair,  was  rosier  and  plumper 
than  she  had  ever  been. 

The  Italian,  wrapped  in  his  brigand 
cloak,  did  not  speak. 

"It  is  too  jolly,  Mr.  Curtis  !  I  am,  you 
see,  as  excited  over  it  all  as  if  I  were  six- 
teen instead  of  fifty-two  !  I  am  working 
under  Galtani,  and  we  live  the  most  inde- 
pendent of  lives.  Count  Savrigny  found 
us  the  rooms, — quite  in  the  artistic  quar- 
ters,— and  we  have  been  there  all  winter. 

Beth  speaks  Italian  like  a  native " 

117 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  A  native  of  America,"  interrupted  the 
girl,  laughing.  Then  she  subsided  again 
into  silence. 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Gurney  knows  nothing  of 
this  change  in  your  plans,"  Curtis  ob- 
served at  last,  hesitatingly. 

"  Of  course  she  doesn't.  If  Beth  wrote 
her  grandmother,  her  grandmother  would 
tell,  and  then  Mr.  Wendall,  my  brother, 
would  shut  me  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 
The  stiffness  of  Boston  is  beyond  concep- 
tion, Mr.  Curtis  !  Besides,  I  certainly  am 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself, — and 
to  chaperon  Beth,  don't  you  think  ?" 

The  carriage  stopped  as  she  spoke,  and 
Curtis  helped  the  ladies  out,  while  Neroni 
subdued  the  cabby,  who  was  exorbitant 
in  his  wishes,  and  loud  in  the  expression 
of  them. 

The  stone  staircase  was  narrow,  and 
perfectly  dark,  until  Neroni  lighted  a 
small  candle  that  he  had  in  his  pocket. 

To  Curtis,  in  his  ignorance,  the  condi- 
tion of  the  entrance  was  something  hor- 
rible, and  his  disgust  was  not  abated  when 
118 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Miss  Frazer  opened  the  door  of  the  apart- 
ment with  a  latch-key. 

The  house  was  dark,  but  Neroni,  with- 
out speaking,  found  a  lamp  and  lighted  it, 
then  carrying  it  into  the  studio  with  the 
air  of  one  perfectly  at  home. 

"  Now  sit  down,  children,"  cried  Miss 
Frazer,  as  she  disappeared  around  a  big 
black  and  gold  screen.  "  Max  will  soon 
come  with  the  cheese.  Neroni,  will  you 
make  an  omelet?" 

Neroni  bowed.  Curtis  thought  that 
the  young  officer  seemed  to  share  in 
some  degree  his  own  discomfort,  and  the 
idea  attracted  him  to  him. 

Beth  sat  down,  slowly  took  off  her  cap, 
and  threw  back  her  cape.  She  wore  a 
dark  velveteen  blouse,  above  which  her 
well-cut,  delicate  face  rose  like  a  flower. 
Curtis  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her. 
She  was  stiff  and  ill  at  ease,  at  first ;  then 
suddenly,  jumping  up,  called  Neroni,  and 
the  two  set  to  work  to  build  a  fire  with 
pine  cones  in  the  tiny,  three-cornered 
grate. 

119 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Void  le  cheese,"  announced  Savrigny, 
as  he  came  in.  "  I  am  an  angel  boy  !" 

"  Oh,  your  English,  Max !  Speak 
French  ;  Mr.  Curtis  will  understand  you 
better." 

Beth  turned  a  flushed  face  from  the 
fire,  and  laughed. 

Savrigny  smiled  at  her,  and  arranged 
the  chafing-dish  on  a  little  table  near  the 
lamp. 

"  Lippo  mio, — are  you  going  to  make 
an  omelet?" 

"Yes.  But  first, — prima, — d '  abord 
The  young  fellow  stopped  short, 
his  face  red  with  embarrassment. 

"  Never  mind  Mr.  Curtis,  Neroni," 
called  Miss  Frazer  from  the  darkness 
beyond  the  screen.  "And  never  mind 
that  animal  Max.  What  is  it  ?" 

Of  all  this  Curtis  understood  not  a 
word.  But  two  things  he  knew, — that 
he  liked  Neroni,  and  that  he  detested 
Savrigny. 

He  listened  to  the  noisy  talk,  and 
watched  Beth.  She  had  overcome  her 

120 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

first  embarrassment,  and  was  now  ex- 
cited and  rather  noisy.  Every  time  she 
called  the  Frenchman  by  his  name,  Curtis 
started. 

The  supper  was  good, — an  omelet 
with  truffles,  and  the  Welsh  rabbit,  at 
which  Savrigny  made  faces,  and  which 
the  Italian  vainly  struggled  to  eat.  There 
was  red  wine  in  a  flask  woven  in  a  net 
of  reeds,  and  white  wine  in  a  bottle. 

When  every  one  was  tired  of  eating, 
Curtis  rose. 

"It  is  late, — after  eleven,"  he  began, 
when  Savrigny  interrupted  him. 

"  First  you  must  see  the  picture.  The 
picture  !" 

"  Yes.     Will  you  look  at  my  picture  ?" 

Sarah  Frazer's  innocent  eyes  touched 
him  strangely,  among  the  absurdity  and 
vulgarity  of  her  surroundings,  as  she 
looked  up  at  him. 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  murmured. 

Savrigny  took  the  lamp,  and,  holding  it 
high  above  his  head,  led  the  way  into  the 
darkness. 

121 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Curtis  knew  nothing  of  pictures,  but 
when  the  lamplight  fell  on  the  canvas  he 
was  startled,  the  half-finished  painting 
before  him  was  so  grotesquely  bad. 

He  looked  up.  Savrigny  was  sneer- 
ing, Beth  looking  the  other  way,  and 
Neroni  had  not  come  at  all.  Miss 
Frazer's  lips  quivered  with  anxiety,  and 
her  eyes  glistened. 

"  Tell  me, — what  you  think  ?" 

"What  could  any  one  think,"  put  in 
Savrigny,  "  except  that  it  is  a  wonderful 
picture." 

She  smiled  gratefully  at  him.  "Oh, 
you,  Max,  you  always  flatter  me.  Tell 
me,  Mr.  Curtis." 

"I  think,"  said  Curtis,  slowly,  looking 
at  Savrigny  with  something  like  defiance 
in  his  eyes,  "that  it  is  very  beautiful, 
Miss  Frazer." 

"Ah!  Really?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad. 
For  all  my  life  I  have  felt  that  I  had 
talent,  and  could  not  develop  it.  I  have 
longed  for  years  and  years  to  study,  and 
I  had  some  fears  that — I  was  too  old." 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  she  turned  away. 
"  Come.  I  am  an  old  idiot.  Thanks, 
Mr.  Curtis.  Thanks,  Maxence." 

"I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  Mr. 
Curtis' s  acquaintance  for  long,"  said 
Savrigny,  slowly,  "but  from  the  first 
minute  I  have  recognized  him  as  a  man 
of  taste." 

Without  quite  understanding  this  re- 
mark, Curtis  was  angered  by  it,  and, 
making  a  hasty  appointment  with  the 
ladies  for  the  next  day,  took  his  leave. 

As  he  reached  the  street,  Neroni  came 
hurrying  after  him.  "  Mossieu,"  he 
began,  in  very  bad  French,  "  pardon  me, 
— you  have  known  Mees  Gurney  long, — 
in  America,  is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Oui,  out.     Why?" 

The  Italian  hesitated,  then  holding  out 
his  hand,  clutched  Curtis's,  and  said,  im- 
petuously, his  beautiful,  soft  eyes  full  of 
tears,  "  I  like  you, — ze  vous  aime,  you 
are  good." 

"  Good  Lord !"  cried  the  American, 
reddening.  "I  don't  speak  French,"  he 
123 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

added,  hastily,  in  that  tongue.  "  Awfully 
sorry.  Good-night." 

Neroni  watched  him  mutely.  "  I 
suffer,"  he  murmured,  reproachfully. 
"  My  heart  is  heavy." 

The  last  words,  uttered  in  careful 
English,  were  so  unexpected  that  Curtis 
could  hardly  repress  a  laugh.  He  shook 
the  other  man's  hand  warmly,  however. 
"So  is  mine,  old  man,"  he  answered,  in 
his  own  tongue. 


124 


CHAPTER   III 

WITH  the  unerring  "scent"  of  jeal- 
ousy, Curtis  felt  that  his  rival  with 
Beth  was  not  the  Italian,  but  Savrigny, 
although  the  Frenchman  had  not  in  the 
least  devoted  himself  to  her. 

Neroni's  state  of  heart  was  almost 
ludicrously  visible,  but  Beth's  manner 
with  him,  free  and  easy  as  it  was,  was 
quite  satisfactory  to  the  American. 

On  the  other  hand,  his  not  too  brilliant 
faculties  at  once  seized  something  in  the 
way  she  spoke  to  and  looked  at  Maxence 
de  Savrigny  that  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

"  She  is  in  love  with  that  wretched 
little  monkey !"  he  told  himself,  over  and 
over  again.  "  Beth  Gurney  !" 

And  he  was  right.  From  the  first, 
Savrigny's  open  cynicism  and  picturesque 
little  person  had  appealed  to  some 
hitherto  untouched  note  in  the  girl's 
nature,  and  his  apparent  indifference  to 
125 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

herself  achieved  the  rest.  Proud  as  she 
was,  and  conscious  of  her  beauty,  her 
superior  mind,  and  her  youth,  which,  un- 
like most  girls,  she  appreciated  at  its  full 
value,  Savrigny  had  an  influence  on  her 
that  almost  frightened  her,  even  while 
she  deeply  enjoyed  it. 

He  scented  his  hair,  and  while  she 
railed  at  the  habit  to  Sally  Frazer,  calling 
it  vulgar,  and  "hair-dresser's  assistant," 
yet  the  odour  delighted  her.  His  scraggy 
red  cravats  pleased  her,  too,  and  the  ap- 
parent carelessness  of  his  toilet. 

And  while,  setting  down  at  their  real 
value  all  the  man's  pretences  and  manner- 
isms, she  told  herself  that  he  just  missed 
being  a  gentleman,  yet  the  sound  of  his 
step  sent  the  blood  dizzily  to  her  heart, 
and  brought  a  pulse  to  her  throat  that 
nearly  choked  her. 

"I  am  a  queer  mixture,"  she  wrote  at 
this  time  in  a  locked  book,  the  key  of 
which  she  wore  on  a  chain  around  her 
neck;  "and  of  all  the  studies  and  sci- 
ences that  exist,  it  seems  to  me  that 
126 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

there  can  be  none  so  fascinating  as  the 
science  of  self-knowledge  :  I  suppose  be- 
cause one  is  inside  one's  self,  and  can 
get  down  to  the  springs  that  make  one 

go-" 

There  was  in  her  a  very  rare  honesty 

— towards  herself.  She  played  none  of 
the  graceful  comedies  before  her  own 
mind  in  which  most  people  excel,  and, 
never  having  known  the  sensation  of 
shame  in  her  life,  regarded  her  own  faults 
and  weakness  with  tranquil  eyes. 

In  a  word,  towards  her  own  never- 
ceasing,  curious  inspection,  she  was 
morally  another  Eve, — naked  and  not 
ashamed. 

The  meeting  with  Curtis  was  intensely 
disagreeable  to  her.  She  realized  in  a 
flash  all  the  discomforts  sure  to  arise  from 
the  introduction  of  such  an  element  into 
her  present  life,  and  felt  at  once  a  super- 
stitious certainty  that  his  coming  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  For,  like  many 
essentially  irreligious  people,  she  was 
extremely  superstitious. 
127 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Then,  with  a  sudden  reversal  of  some 
brake  within  her,  her  gayety  had  come 
back,  and,  incited  further  by  her  innate 
wish  to  hide  her  true  feelings  from  every 
one  but  herself,  she  had  rushed  into  an 
exaggeration  of  her  usual  easy  manner 
with  the  two  men,  feeling  herself  to  be  a 
little  vulgar,  but  not  caring. 

Only  one  thing  mattered :  that  no  one 
should  suspect  that  for  a  minute  she  had 
been  ill  at  ease  and  embarrassed. 

The  next  afternoon  Curtis  called,  bring- 
ing a  great  bunch  of  lilies-of-the-valley. 
He  found  the  room  full  of  people,  strange- 
looking  men  and  three  girls.  One  of  the 
men,  whose  cuffs  were  decidedly  dirty, 
was  kneeling  by  a  small  table,  modelling 
Beth' s  head  in  clay.  One  of  the  girls,  a 
little  blonde,  lay  back  in  a  steamer-chair, 
her  eyes  closed  wearily  with  a  weariness 
that  did  not  extend  to  her  jaw,  as  she 
was  chewing  gum  enthusiastically.  The 
other  two,  big  young  women  with  abun- 
dant figures  and  high  colours,  dressed 
exactly  alike  in  black-and-white  check 
128 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

gowns,  sat  together  on  a  divan,  playing 
on  guitars  and  singing.  In  another  corner 
Savrigny  lay  stretched  out  on  two  chairs, 
smoking.  Miss  Frazer,  enveloped  in  a 
big  blue  apron,  was  at  work  on  her 
picture,  while  a  small  man  in  a  black 
velvet  cap,  sitting  by  her,  made  sugges- 
tions, from  time  to  time,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Curtis  ?"  Miss 
Frazer  held  out  her  hand.  "  Max,  get 
up  and  give  Mr.  Curtis  a  chair.  Oh,— 
Mr.  Curtis,  the  Signorine  Savelli,  Miss 
Cole,  Signer  Bauli,  Professore  Caccia, 
and  Herr  Grube." 

Beth  only  smiled  at  him,  without 
moving.  "  I  don't  dare  get  up,  or  he'd 
slay  me, — it's  just  at  a  critical  point." 

Her  black  silk  collar  lay  in  her  lap,  and 
her  round,  white  neck  was  bent. 

Curtis  sat  down  in  one  of  Savrigny' s 
chairs,  and  looked  about  him. 

"There  is  tea  and  boiling  water," 
Miss  Frazer  said  presently,  "but  every 
one  is  too  lazy  to  make  it.  I  will,  in  a 
few  minutes.  Professor  Caccia  is  so  kind 

9  129 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

as  to  advise  me  a  little  about  my  picture. 
Have  you  seen  his  '  Phryne'  ?" 

Curtis  had  not. 

"It's  a  great  picture, — a  very  great 
one,"  she  observed,  gravely. 

"Bice,  sing  ' Au  dais  de  la  lune," 
called  out  Savrigny. 

"  I  can't.     Mimi  can't  play  it." 

"  Mimi,  talk  a  little  English  for  Mon- 
sieur Curtis,"  the  Frenchman  went  on, 
lighting  another  cigarette. 

Mimi  Savelli  laughed.  "  Blast  my  eyes, 
you  are  a  daisy,"  she  said,  in  a  delicious, 
slow  contralto. 

Every  one  roared. 

"An  English  sculptor  taught  her. 
Isn't  it  absurd  ?"  Miss  Frazer's  innocent 
old  eyes  were  crinkled  up  with  fun.  "  Say 
some  more,  Mimi." 

"Ta-ra-ra  boom-de-ay,  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling, Goddam." 

Beth  laughed,  too,  a  little  nervously. 
"Neroni  is  twice  as  funny,"  she  said. 
"Ah,  here  he  is.  Lippo,  say  your  poem 
for  Mr.  Curtis." 

130 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Neroni  smiled  at  her,  took  off  his 
sword,  and  began  promptly  :  "  Mary  'ad 
a  little  'amb " 

Without  a  laugh,  without  the  least  em- 
barrassment, he  went  through  the  rhyme. 

Curtis  laughed  with  the  rest. 

"Thanks, "he said.  "Delightful.  Who 
taught  you  ?" 

"  Mees  Gurney." 

Then  Miss  Frazer,  who  had  made  the 
tea,  called  him  to  hand  the  cups. 

The  two  Italian  girls  took  six  lumps  of 
sugar  each,  and  Savrigny,  rum. 

There  were  cakes  and  a  flask  of  wine 
on  a  side-table. 

Curtis  learned,  listening  to  the  talk, 
that  Mimi  Savelli  was  studying  singing, — 
for  the  stage,  and  that  the  sisters  lived 
alone  in  the  same  house  with  Miss  Frazer 
and  Beth.  He  also  learned  that  Herr 
Grube  was  fond  of  Bice,  who  offered  him 
crumbs  of  her  cake  and  sips  from  her 
cup.  The  English  girl  did  not  talk  at 
all. 

At  length  Beth  rose.  "  Now,  my  chil- 
li 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

dren,"  she  said  in  French,  "  I  am  going 
for  a  drive  with  Mr.  Curtis.     Ta-ta." 

"Mr.  Curtis  is  a  lucky  man,"  laughed 
Savrigny.  "  One  of  your  English  poets 
says,  'After  all,  old  things  are  best,' — 
eh,  Beth?" 

Curtis  would  have  enjoyed  kicking 
him. 

"Why  do  you  let  that  beast  call  you 
Beth  ?'  he  asked,  when  they  were  seated 
in  the  cab. 

"  Who, — Max  ?  Why,  we  all  of  us  call 
each  other  by  our  first  names.  We  are 
in  Bohemia,  my  dear  Billy." 

"They  are  Bohemians,  and  you 
aren't." 

"And  Sally?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
him  innocently. 

"Oh,  Miss  Frazer?  No.  She's  only 
crazy,  I  think.  What  can  she  be  think- 
ing of?" 

After    a    pause,    she    began    slowly : 
"Isn't   it   touching,    Billy?      About    her 
picture,  I  mean.     I  could  cry  sometimes 
when  she  talks  of  it." 
132 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Then  how  can  you  let  her  believe  in 
it  ?  Beth,  come  away  from  these  people. 
They  are  all  vulgar,  and — dirty,  most  of 
'em.  I  don't  like  those  Italian  girls,  and 
the  little  blonde  looks  as  though  she  took 
opium." 

"  She  does.  Or  rather,  she  did.  She 
paints  beautifully,  and  is  really  the  nicest 
of  them  all." 

"That's  easy,  as  far  as  I  can  see. 
Beth,  how  can  you  stand  them  ?" 

"  I  know ;  but  they  are  amusing  and 
kind,  and  poor,  dear  Sally  is  having  the 
time  of  her  life." 

Curtis  hesitated. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  English 
cemetery.  The  spring  sun  flooded  the 
plain  with  light,  and  the  air  was  sweet 
after  a  shower. 

"And  Savrigny,"  he  went  on,  at 
length,  "he  is  a  disgusting  little  puppy. 
He — doesn't  treat  you  as  he  should, 
Beth." 

She  flushed  angrily.  "I  am  very  fond 
of  Max.  Now,  if  you've  said  enough 
133 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

disagreeable  things  about  my  friends, 
let's  talk  of — sealing-wax  and  things." 

"  You  know  why  I've  come,  of  course," 
he  said,  quickly.  "  Beth  !" 

Her  delicate  brows  drew  together. 
"  Don't,  Billy.  It's  no  use.  I  can't,  and 
I  won't,  and — booh-!" 

Her  little  shiver  was  perfectly  genuine. 
His  emotion,  being  real,  was  hideous  to 
her.  He  did  not  answer,  and  they  sat  in 
silence  until  the  cab  stopped  at  the  gate. 

"Let's  go  to  Keats  only.  It  is  late, 
you  know,"  she  said,  jumping  out. 

He  followed  her  over  the  little  bridge, 
into  the  old  cemetery,  to  the  enclosed 
grave.  It  was  covered  with  violets. 

Beth' s  eyes  glowed.  "  How  lovely  !" 
She  felt  the  keenest  pleasure  in  this  un- 
expected artistic  effort  of  nature,  and, 
while  he  picked  her  a  little  bunch  of 
violets,  she  recited  the  "Ode  to  a  Night- 
ingale," in  a  soft,  deep  voice,  the  modu- 
lation of  which  gave  her  exquisite  delight. 

Curtis  watched  her  finish.  Her  pose, 
most  natural,  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  the 
134 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

little  tremble  in  her  throat, — all  these 
things  affected  him,  though  he  disliked 
poetry,  and  had  never  read  a  word  of 
Keats  in  his  life. 

"Come,"  she  said,  at  length;  "we 
must  go." 

And  respecting  her  silence,  he  did  not 
speak  a  word  during  the  homeward 
drive. 


135 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO  or  three  evenings  later,  Curtis 
met  Neroni  on  the  Pincio,  and  they 
walked  down  the  Corso  together.  Curtis 
was  unhappy,  and  at  his  wits'  end  about 
Beth.  The  people  among  whom  she  was 
living  grew  more  distasteful  to  him  every 
day,  and  now,  at  last,  tired  of  his  attempts 
to  persuade  her  to  leave  them,  she  had 
quarrelled  with  him.  Almost  in  utter  si- 
lence the  two  men  made  their  way  down 
the  street, — Neroni's  eyes  full  of  a  mon- 
key-like sadness,  Curtis' s  face,  less  expres- 
sive, simply  morose. 

When  they  came  to  the  street  where 
Curtis  should  have  turned  off  to  go  to 
his  hotel  he  stopped,  and  with  a  sudden 
idea,  born  of  his  utter  forlornness,  and 
shrinking  from  solitude,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Will  you  dine  with  me  ?"  Then  in  care- 
ful French  he  repeated  the  invitation, 
pointing  to  his  mouth  expressively. 
136 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Neroni's  face  brightened.  "  Volontiers, 
— much  pleasure, — Ze  suis  tres  triste  ce 
soir." 

That  he  was  sad  that  evening  required, 
in  fact,  no  announcing,  and  Curtis  nodded 
sympathetically. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Suppose  you  choose  the  restaurant, — 
my  hotel  is  full  of  gabbling  old  women," 
he  added  savagely,  in  English. 

Neroni  pondered  a  minute,  and  then 
nodded.  "  Si, — I  know,"  and  taking  Cur- 
tis's  arm,  he  led  him  through  several  nar- 
row streets  to  a  door  freshly  painted  white, 
over  which  hung  the  device  :  "  Trattoria 
Fiorentina." 

They  passed  down  a  narrow  sanded 
passage,  and  then  turning  to  the  right, 
entered  a  small  room  in  which  were  fitted 
six  little  tables,  covered  with  coarse,  fairly 
clean  linen. 

Across  the  passage,  the  kitchen  door 

was  open,  and  a  portly  cook,  in  dingy 

white  and  a  square  paper  cap,  was  busy 

with  his  preparations.  Two  young  women, 

137 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

one  of  them  extremely  pretty,  with  a  row 
of  thick  little  corkscrew  curls  bobbing  on 
her  forehead,  were  helping  him. 

"  You  like  it  ?  You  find  it  nice?"  queried 
Neroni,  anxiously,  unhooking  his  sword, 
and  sitting  down.  "  Tres  gentil" 

The  two  men  were  seated  by  the  open 
window ;  beyond,  in  the  tiny  brick  court, 
a  little  old  fountain  spluttered  feebly  in  the 
clear  amber  evening  light.  Over  the  tall 
cedar  that  grew  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall,  one  star  looked  steadily  down. 

Curtis  liked  the  quiet.  He  was  desper- 
ately tired,  and  leaning  back  he  shut  his 
eyes. 

"What  will  the  gentlemen  have?" 

A  fat  waiter  stood  by  them,  a  clean 
serviette  over  his  arm. 

"Order,  won't  you,  Tenente?" 

Neroni  nodded,  and  asked  the  servant 
what  there  was. 

"Maccaroni  alia  Milanese,  Maccaroni 
with  truffles,  Maccaroni  alia " 

"  Milanese.     What  else  is  there  ?" 

"  Cutlets  fried  in  crumbs,  fried  fish " 

138 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

At  length  Neroni  had  completed  the 
order  and  the  servant  withdrew. 

"  One  eats  well  here, — you  like  mac- 
caroni  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Curtis. 

The  young  officer  leaned  over  the 
table  and  laid  his  slim  brown  hand,  with 
its  half-inch-long  little-finger-nail,  on  Cur- 
tis's  sleeve. 

"Dear  you,"  he  said  gently,  in  his 
Italian  French,  "your  heart  aches,  too. 
The  love  gives  much  pain." 

Curtis  shook  him  off  impatiently. 
"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  have  a  headache, — mal  a  la 

I*  i  " 
tete. 

Neroni  shook  his  head  sadly.  "You 
do  not  love  me,"  he  murmured.  "  I  love 
you  very  much.  You  are  very  simpatico. 
Basta !  You  will  not  tell  me, — I  cannot 
help."  Then  he,  too,  subsided  into  silence, 
and  they  awaited  the  coming  of  the  dinner. 

"  May  I  tell  you  about  me  ?"  he  began 

again,   timidly,   sprinkling  grated   cheese 

liberally  into  his  soup. 

139 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Yes,  yes." 

With  a  terrible  noise  the  soup  disap- 
peared, and  then  he  went  on. 

"  You  know, — I  love  her, — Mees  Gur- 
ney." 

"Oui.  I  know,  not  being  blind."  The 
last  three  words  in  English. 

"Eh  bien!  I  love  her  very  much, — I 
die  for  her." 

He  bit  the  loin  out  of  a  chop  much  as 
a  cannibal  might  bite  out  the  calf  of  the 
leg  of  a  well-fed  missionary. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  que  ze  souffre  /" 

His  eyes  were  beautiful,  but  his  man- 
ner of  eating  disgusted  Curtis,  who  tried 
not  to  look  at  him. 

When  the  salad  came,  and  Neroni 
drenched  it  with  oil  and  shovelled  it  into 
his  mouth  with  the  aid  of  a  bit  of  bread, 
the  American  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  turned  to  the  window. 

"I  cannot  eat,"  he  said;  "my  head 
aches  too  badly," 

Neroni,  whose  appetite  was  untouched 


140 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

by  his  woe,  finished  the  salad  and  fowl, 
and  ate  all  the  caramel  custard. 

Then,  placidly  picking  his  teeth,  he 
said, — 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur, — a  very  good 
dinner." 

Curtis  nodded,  and  poured  out  a  glass 
of  oily  black  wine,  which  he  drank  with- 
out water,  to  the  other  man's  evident  as- 
tonishment. 

The  amber  light  had  faded  now,  or 
rather  concentrated  itself,  into  a  few  bril- 
liant stars.  The  plashing  of  the  little 
fountain  was  the  only  near  sound,  the 
kitchen  doors  being  shut. 

Curtis  drank  a  second  glass  of  wine ; 
Neroni  took  coffee,  and  then  lit  a  long, 
slim  black  cigar. 

At  length  the  Italian  began  to  speak 
slowly,  choosing  his  words  carefully,  but 
with  an  evident  determination  to  say  all 
that  he  wished. 

"  As  soon  as  I  saw  you,  I  knew  that  at 
last  there  was  somebody  whom  I  could 
ask.  You  are  a  gentleman,  you  are  sim- 
141 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

paticone,  and — you  knew  her  in  Amer- 
ica." 

Curtis  nodded.  He  saw  that  the  other 
man's  confidence  was  not  to  be  avoided. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something  of  her 
family?"  ' 

"  She  is  an  orphan.  Mother  and  father 
dead,  you  know.  She  lives  with  her  grand- 
mother," answered  Curtis,  reluctantly. 

"  And  she  is  of  good  blood  ?" 

"  Good  blood  !  You  can  see  for  your- 
self." 

Neroni  shook  his  head,  "Mafoi, — 
that  is  what  Maxence  says, — I  can  see  for 
myself.  But  I  cannot.  I  only  can  see 
that — that  I  love  her,  and  wish  to  marry 
her — if  I  can." 

"Look  here,"  exclaimed  Curtis,  sitting 
up,  "I  might  as  well  tell  you,  Neroni. 
I'm  sure  she  won't  have  you." 

"Have  me?  M 'avoir?"  Neroni's 
brows  were  puzzled.  As  he  spoke,  Sav- 
rigny  came  in,  in  evening  clothes,  a  gar- 
denia in  his  coat. 

1  Tiens !  how  nice  this  is!  Giorgio, 
142 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

bring  me  an  omelet  and  a  bottle  of 
Capri.  So  you  have  been  dining  together, 
eh?" 

The  idea  seemed  to  amuse  him. 

"As  you  see,"  growled  Curtis. 

"  Max, — what  is  '  have  me'  ?"  put  in  the 
Italian,  eagerly. 

"  Never  mind,  Neroni,"  interrupted 
Curtis  ;  "I'll  tell  you  to-morrow,  domani" 

"No,  no,  now,  Max,"  he  went  on  in 
Italian. 

When  he  had  finished,  Savrigny  laid  his 
hand  rather  kindly  on  his  arm,  and  said, 
"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Lippo." 

"  I  am  not  a  fool.  I  love  her,  and  per 
Dio,  I  must  know.  Tell  me,  Curtis, — is  she 
a  young  girl  to  marry  ?"  His  face  was  pale 
with  excitement  as  he  spoke.  "  Listen  : 
my  father  loves  me,  he  will  give  me  money, 
— we  are  not  noble,  but  it  is  a  good  old 
name, — my  father  is  proud, — tell  me." 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  you're 
driving  at,"  Curtis  answered,  impatiently. 
"  Of  course,  she's  a  young  girl  to  marry 
if  she'll  marry  you,  which  she  won't." 
143 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

The  Italian's  face  lighted  up.  "Then, 
do  you  see,  Max?  You  were  wrong." 

Savrigny  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
was  not  wrong,  insane  one.  M.  Curtis, — 
he  means,  the  fool,  that  he  would  wish  to 
marry  her !" 

Curtis  paused  a  minute,  and  then,  with 
an  oath,  flung  his  glass  of  wine  full  in  the 
Frenchman's  face. 

Savrigny  staggered  back,  blinded  for 
the  moment,  and  then,  wiping  his  eyes 
on  his  sleeve,  flew  at  the  American  with 
wonderful  forgetfulness  of  his  greatly  in- 
ferior size. 

Curtis  caught  his  shoulders,  and  look- 
ing down  at  him,  saying  slowly,  "  I  can't 
thrash  you,  you're  too  small,"  stepped 
out  of  the  window  and  laid  his  adversary 
gently  in  the  fountain. 

Another  minute  and  he  was  gone. 


144 


CHAPTER   V 

BETH  was  writing  and  Miss  Frazer 
reading,  when  he  came  into  their 
apartment  half  an  hour  later. 

"  What  is  it?"  they  cried  together. 

"  The  matter  is  that  you've  got  to  come 
to  the  Bristol  this  minute.  I'll  arrange  it 
all,  only  you  must  come." 

"  To  the  Bristol, — what  has  happened  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Beth  ;  you  are  in  a  ter- 
ribly false  position,  and  I've  just  thrashed 
that  little  hound  Savrigny  for  insulting 
you.  Put  on  your  hats." 

Sarah  Frazer  understood,  and  the  blood 
ebbed  slowly  from  her  fresh  face,  leaving 
it  gray  and  old. 

Beth  stared  at  them  in  surprise. 
"What?  I  don't  understand." 

"  Come,  dear,"  said  Miss  Frazer.  "  He 
is  right.  I  have  been  an  old  fool.  Have 
you  a  cab,  Mr.  Curtis  ?" 

i°  J4S 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Yes." 

While  they  dressed,  he  gathered  up  a 
few  little  things  he  thought  they  might 
need  and  put  them  in  his  dress-suit  case, 
which  he  had  brought  for  the  purpose. 
His  head  still  swam,  but  his  plans  were 
made,  and  he  carried  them  through. 

"Thank  God  that  she  didn't  under- 
stand," he  said  over  and  over  again  to 
himself.  And  it  was  true  that  the  girl 
had  not  understood. 

Whether  it  was  a  certain  innocence  that 
was  part  of  her  curiously  complicated  char- 
acter, or  whether  her  great  vanity  ban- 
ished such  a  possibility  from  her  mind,  the 
fact  remained  the  same. 

In  an  hour's  time  they  were  installed  at 
the  Bristol,  and  Curtis,  the  key  of  their 
apartment  in  his  pocket,  had  left  them. 

He  went  to  his  own  hotel,  rummaged 
in  his  luggage  until  he  found  the  package 
of  letters  of  introduction  that  he  had 
until  now  neglected,  and  then  went  to 
bed. 

The  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock  he 
146 


M  \RR'D    IN    MAKING 

was  at  the  door  of  the  Palazzo  Casavec- 
chia,  and  at  half-past  ten,  closeted  with  the 
old  Princess,  nee  Maria  Allen,  of  Boston, 
a  cousin  of  his  mother's,  and  his  sister's 
godmother. 

When  the  old  woman  had  scolded  him 
for  not  coming  to  see  her  before,  she  let 
him  tell  his  story,  studying  his  face  care- 
fully as  he  spoke. 

When  he  paused,  she  said,  "Are  you 
engaged  to  Miss  Gurney?" 

His  face  changed,  but  he  answered, 
bravely,  "  No  ;  but  I  wish  I  were." 

"  I  see.  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten  minutes. 
Mary  Anne  Russell  must  have  gone  mad 
since  I  saw  her,  to  allow  such  goings-on  ; 
but  I'll  make  it  all  right.  It  is  very 
simple." 

And  Curtis,  left  alone,  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  A  burden  shared  is  a 
burden  halved. 

At  half-past  twelve,  Savrigny,  his  arm 

in   a   silk   sling,  rang   at   Miss    Frazer's 

apartment.       He   was    accompanied    by 

another  man.     They  had  been  to  Curtis's 

J47 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hotel,  and  learned  that  he  had  gone  to 
the  via  Sanpiero.  While  they  waited  at 
the  door,  Neroni  came  up  behind  them, 
and  joined  them  without  speaking.  After 
a  short  time  the  old  woman  to  whom  the 
house  belonged  opened  the  door,  and 
they  went  in. 

By  the  easel,  on  which  stood  poor  Sally 
Frazer's  picture,  sat  a  beautiful,  hook- 
nosed old  woman  in  a  dark  velvet  mantle 
trimmed  with  sable.  No  one  else  was  in 
the  room  except  a  servant  in  livery,  who 
knelt  by  a  window  packing  a  box  full  of 
books. 

"  Madame,"  began  Savrigny,  his  man- 
ner changing  instinctively  as  the  old  lady 
turned  to  him,  "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Monsieur,"  she  returned,  in  perfect 
French,  "  it  is  I  who  derange.  My  friends 
are  not  here,  as  you  see,  and,  as  servants 
are  never  to  be  trusted,  I  have  come 
myself  to  see  that  their  belongings  are 
properly  cared  for." 

"  Permit     me     to     present     myself, — 
Vicomte  de  Savrigny." 
148 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"And  lam  the  Princess  Casavecchia. 
Pray  sit  down,  Monsieur." 

Neroni  and  the  other  man  slipped 
quietly  away  as  Savrigny  sat  down. 

"  Have  you  known  them  long, — Miss 
Gurney  and  Miss  Frazer,  I  mean? 
Charming,  are  they  not?  There  is 
another  book,  Francesco.  Beth  is  very 
dear  to  me,  in  spite  of  her  obstinacy. 
What  I  have  gone  through,  these  two 
months  !  You,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
can  imagine  my  feelings,  Monsieur, — my 
despair  over  the  two  geese.  My  prayers, 
my  threats,  all  in  vain  :  come  they  would. 
And  I  my  dear  Beth's  grandmother's 
oldest  friend."  She  smiled  with  satisfac- 
tion over  this  unveracious  inspiration. 
"  Elisabeth  is  my  name,  too.  She  is  my 
godchild." 

Savrigny  bowed  gravely. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,  they  are  so 
shockingly  innocent,  these  Americans. 
They  do  not  realize  how  their  very  inno- 
cence may  be  their  ruin.  I  told  Sarah, 
only  the  other  day,  that  people  who  do 
149 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

not  know  the  world,  seeing  the  way  they 
live,  might  have  even  doubts  as  to,  — 
tim!  You  understand  me  ?  C'estdeso- 


Savrigny  was  a  dissolute  little  ne'er-do- 
well,  but  the  blood  in  his  veins  was  good, 
and  he  was  quick-witted. 

"  Madame  is  quite  right,"  he  assented, 
warmly.  "  Such  experiments  are  danger- 
ous for  ladies.  For  any  other  women  on 
earth  they  would  be  quite  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  Americans  are  known  to 
be  eccentric.  And  in  this  case,  luckily, 
no  one  misunderstood." 

The  princess  nodded  tranquilly.  "  Oh, 
I  know.  But  nevertheless  they  only  owe 
it  to  luck,  —  that  they  met  people  who 
know  the  world." 

"  Precisement.  But  your  gain,  Madame, 
is  our  loss.  Miss  Frazer  is  very  amiable 
and  Miss  Gurney  a  most  charming  young 
girl.  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that 
they  are  going  to  stay  with  you  at  pres- 
ent?" 

"  My  godchild,  yes.  Miss  Frazer  had 
150 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

a  cablegram  last  night,  calling  her  to 
America." 

"  Ah  !"  The  Frenchman  rose.  "  May 
I  beg  you  to  present  my  homages  to  the 
two  ladies  ?"  he  began. 

The  old  woman  bowed.  And  as  Sa- 
vrigny  bent  over  her  hand,  Curtis  came 
in. 

''Good-morning,  Monsieur,"  the 
Frenchman  said  at  once.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  if  I  annoyed  you  last  night." 

Curtis  took  his  hand,  and  answered, 
politely,  "  Oh,  certainly.  And  I  really 
think  I  was  quite  as  annoying  as  you 
were." 

Thus  Beth  and  Miss  Frazer  were  res- 
cued from  their  dilemma. 

The  old  princess  scolded  them  both 
roundly  when  she  met  them  at  the  Bris- 
tol, and  then,  struck  by  Beth' s  beauty, 
took  one  of  her  sudden  fancies  to  the 
girl,  and  really  asked  her  to  stay  at  the 
Palazzo  Casavecchia  with  her. 

Poor  Sarah  was  not  invited.  The  old 
lady  disliked  timid  people,  and  Miss 
151 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Frazer  was  so  humiliated  by  her  recent 
misfortunes  that  she  could  only  wail. 

Beth  left  her  without  regrets,  and  Miss 
Frazer  went  on  to  Venice  with  some 
friends  she  met  in  the  Borghese  gallery, 
whither  she  had  gone  to  console  herself 
in  her  affliction. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  princess  that  night 
at  dinner,  "  how  came  your  grandmother 
to  trust  you  to  that  poor  creature  ?" 

"She  used  to  be  quite  different,  Prin- 
cess ;  and  she  is  the  best  soul  that  ever 
lived,  really." 

The  old  lady  took  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
then  said,  "  If  there  is  any  one  on  earth 
more  utterly  annoying  than  the  woman 
who  means  well,  it  is  the  woman  who  is 
the  best  soul  on  earth." 

"It  is  something  no  one  has  ever  said 
of  me,"  Beth  answered,  laughing. 

The  princess  looked  at  her.  "  I  am 
quite  sure  of  it,  my  dear.  There  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  your  hair.  We  shall 
see  what  Adalgisa,  my  woman,  can  make 
of  it." 

152 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.  GORDON  BLAIR  walked 
slowly  up  the  path,  looking  at 
the  flowers  that  hung  heavily  on  their 
stems,  tired  as  she  was  by  the  great 
heat.  The  metallic  blue  of  the  sky,  un- 
relieved by  any  softness  of  cloud,  was 
of  that  blue  that  English  people  call 
"Italian."  The  trees  were  white  with 
dust,  the  asphalt  of  the  street  behind  her 
was  softened  by  the  heat  and  gave  out 
a  strong  odour  of  tar.  Mrs.  Blair's  face 
was  red, — not  her  cheeks,  but  her  face. 
Her  hair,  carefully  curled  over  her  brow, 
hung  in  loose  wisps  behind  her  ears  and 
on  the  lace  of  her  gown.  She  was  one 
of  those  women  who  always  have  loose 
wisps  of  hair. 

Mrs.  Gurney's  curtains  were  all  drawn 
down,  the  blinds  closed.  The  old  house 
seemed  asleep. 

153 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Mrs.  Blair  rang,  and  pressed  close  to 
the  door,  in  the  triangle  of  shadow,  while 
she  waited.  At  length  footsteps  inside 
broke  the  silence,  and  Sarah  Harper, 
Mrs.  Gurney's  "second  girl,"  opened  the 
door. 

Sarah  Harper  and  Anna  Curtis  had 
been  in  the  same  Sunday-school  class  for 
years,  calling  each  other  by  their  first 
names.  They  had  learned  geography 
side  by  side  at  the  academy,  where 
Sarah's  father  was  janitor,  and  had 
jumped  rope  together  until  their  lips 
were  white.  Yet  now,  Sarah,  bowing 
mutely  to  the  unspoken  laws  of  society, 
called  her  old  playfellow  "ma'am."  So 
much  for  equality  in  the  Land  of  the 
Free. 

"Yes,  ma'am  ;  Mrs.  Gurney  is  in." 

Mrs.  Blair  sat  down  in  the  cool  parlour 
and  waited.  The  ormolu  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  had  stopped  at  twenty  min- 
utes past  five  many  years  ago,  and  at 
twenty  minutes  past  five  the  hands  rested 
now.  She  smiled.  All  her  life  she  had 
154 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

come  at  intervals  to  see  Mrs.  Gurney, 
and  every  time  she  had  wondered  why 
no  one  wound  up  the  clock.  Then  she 
slipped  down  her  glove,  and  looked 
again  at  the  bracelet  her  husband  had 
sent  her  for  her  birthday.  It  was  a 
small,  flexible  chain  set  with  a  ruby  sur- 
rounded by  diamonds.  He  had  sent  it, 
being  detained  at  Newport  by  some 
yachting  business.  Her  eyes  filled  sud- 
denly, and  she  felt  her  nose  swell  as 
she  pressed  back  the  tears.  She  didn't 
know  which  was  worse, — red  eyes  or  a 
swollen  nose.  Other  people's  repressed 
tears  did  not  go  to  their  noses,  but  her's 
did.  And  unfortunately  her  eyes  had  a 
stupid  trick  of  filling  with  tears.  She 
rose,  and  walked  across  the  room  to  look 
at  some  photographs.  There  was  one 
of  Beth  as  a  baby.  She  remembered 
coming  to  see  the  baby  when  it  was  only 
a  few  weeks  old.  She  had  always  loved 
babies.  Mrs.  Gurney  had  brought  the 
little  thing  down  herself,  and  Anna  had 
had  the  joy  of  taking  it  in  her  arms. 
155 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

There  was  the  chair,  embroidered  in 
wools,  in  which  she  had  sat  with  Beth  in 
her  arms.  Then  the  baby  had  suddenly 
opened  its  eyes  and  roared,  and  Anna 
had  been  afraid, — it  grew  so  hideously 
scarlet. 

"  Anna  !     How  nice  of  you  !" 

Mrs.  Gurney  had  come  in  unheard. 

The  young  woman  kissed  the  elder,  as 
she  had  always  done,  and  then  they  both 
sat  down. 

"  I  had  a  long  letter  from  Billy  this 
morning,  Mrs.  Gurney,  and  I  thought 
you  might  like  to  hear  it.  It  is  filled 
with  news  of  Beth,  of  course,"  she 
finished,  smiling. 

Mrs.  Gurney' s  sharp  eyes  took  in 
everything  at  once, — the  turned-down 
glove,  the  bracelet,  the  wet  eyes  ;  but 
she  said  nothing.  She  was  one  of  those 
rare  beings  who  can  keep  their  pity  to 
themselves. 

Mrs.  Blair  opened  the  letter. 

"  At  first  it  is  just  about  us, — Gordon 
and  me,  and  my  last  letter.  Let  me  see. 
156 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Oh,  yes.  '  Cousin  Maria  is  very  nice, 
though  rather  "  sot  in  her  ways."  She 
adores  Beth,  and  Beth  is  the  only  person 
who  dares  to  contradict  her.  The  Villa 
is  as  big  as  the  Deepwater  post-office, 
pale  pink  in  colour,  and  very  plainly  built. 
The  inside  of  it  seems  dreadfully  bare 
to  me,  but  Beth  says  all  Italian  villas 
are. 

"  '  There  are  a  lot  of  swells  staying 
here.  The  Duke  of  Aosta,  the  king's 
nephew,  is  here  in  the  train  of  a  pretty 
countess,  whose  husband  seems  delighted. 
Such  things  are  quite  different  from  what 
they  are  with  us. 

"  '  Cousin  Maria's  son  is  devoted  to 
Beth,  but  she  says  his  hands  are  moist. 
We  play  tennis.  They  all  play  badly,  so 
I  have  to  play  badly,  too,  out  of  polite- 
ness. By  the  way,  did  Aunt  Hannah 
tell  you  that  Cousin  Maria  wrote  her? 
She  did,  I  know. 

"'Are  you  and  Blair  going?' — let  me 
see, — '  I've  been  here  two  weeks,  and  go 
day  after  to-morrow.  Beth  is  coming 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

home  in  October  with  the  Mortons.  I'm 
glad  for  one.  America's  good  enough 
for  me.  Men  are  less  adaptable  than 
women,  I  suppose. 

"  '  It  tickles  me  to  see  Beth  turn  down 
some  of  these  swells.  She  looks  to  the 
manner  born.  You  never  saw  anything 
so  pretty  in  your  life  as  she  is  in  a  white 
ball-dress  she  has,  trimmed  with  fluffy 
stuff  like  fine  mosquito  netting.  And 
she  has  a  tremendously  imposing  man- 
ner.' 

"Then  he  says,"  went  on  Mrs.  Blair, 
laughing,  "'You  will  be  sick  of  this 
drivel,  old  girl ;  but  it's  not  the  first  time, 
is  it?'" 

"He  is  a  dear  boy,  Billy.  And  it's  a 
very  amusing  letter.  Thanks,  very  much, 
Anna.  Is  that  bracelet  a  birthday  pres- 
ent?" 

"Yes." 

She  took  it  off,  and  held  it  to  the  old 
lady. 

"It  is  a  beauty!  From  Gordon,  of 
course  ?" 

158 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  is  so  good  to  me.  He 
always  gives  me  such  beautiful  presents. 
I  must  show  you  my  pearls  sometime." 

Mrs.  Gurney  restricted  her  answer  to 
further  admiration  of  the  ruby.  There 
was  certainly  no  use  in  reminding  the 
young  woman  that  the  money  spent  by 
her  generous  husband  was  her  own. 

While  they  were  talking,  Peter  Wayne 
came  in. 

"  A  letter  from  Beth  !"  he  cried,  waving 
the  envelope  in  the  air.  "  Ah,  Anna, 
how  do  you  do?  How  is  your  hus- 
band?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Wayne. 
He  is  not  with  me  this  time.  He  is 
yachting,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  And  you  don't  care 
fork?" 

Her  plain  face  flushed.  "  I — I  should 
like  it  very  much,  only  I  am  one  of  those 
silly  women  who  scream  when  they  are 
frightened, — and  I  am  easily  frightened." 

Wayne  laughed,  as  he  sat  down  and 
wiped  his  face  on  a  Chinese  silk  handker- 
159 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

chief.  "I'm  always  seasick  myself,"  he 
said. 

She  rose,  and,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Gur- 
ney's  urging  her  to  stay  longer,  took  her 
leave. 

Then  Wayne,  looking  after  her  through 
the  shutters,  said,  quietly,  "She's  not 
happy,  Mary  Anne." 

"  Did  you  expect  she  would  be,  Peter  ? 
I  didn't  Give  me  my  work-bag,  will 
you  ?  No ;  how  could  such  a  girl  as 
Anna  Curtis  be  happy  with  such  a  hus- 
band as  Gordon  Blair  ?" 

"She  is  a  remarkably  nice  woman,"  he 
protested. 

"  Of  course  she  is.  But  she  has  no 
more  charm  than  a  remarkably  nice  tur- 
nip, and  Gordon  Blair  is  not  a  man  to 
love  unadorned  virtue.  You  know  it  as 
well  as  I.  Now  read  me  Beth's  letter." 

"In  just  a  minute,  Mary  Anne.  Tell 
me, — do  they  say  he  ill-treats  her  ?" 

"  Of  course  he  doesn't  ill-treat  her,  you 
goose.  He  is,  no  doubt,  extremely  kind 
to  her.  He  buys  her  beautiful  presents, 
1 60 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

— with  her  own  money, — and  is  always 
beautifully  polite  to  her.  But  her  imagi- 
nation, or  her  heart,  whichever  you  like, 
being  better  developed  than  her  beauty, 
she  isn't  satisfied.  Now  for  Beth." 

Wayne  opened  the  letter  and  read  it 
through.  It  was  a  merry,  affectionate 
letter,  full  of  those  insignificant,  all-im- 
portant details  that  give  life  to  written 
pages,  and  breathing  a  serene  content- 
ment in  every  word. 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  he 
leaned  back,  took  off  his  steel-bowed 
spectacles,  and  said,  "Well?" 

She  laughed,  bending  over  her  work. 
"  '  Well  ?'  That  means,  '  Did  you  ever  in 
your  life  read  a  more  delightful  letter?' 
Frankly,  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did. 
It's  a  rather  rare  accomplishment,  and 
she  has  inherited  it  from  her  father." 

"  Mary  Anne,  do  you  remember 
George's  letters  from  St.  Paul's  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  His  spelling  was  bad. 
Beth  never  misspelled  a  word  in  her  life, 

I  believe.     That  she  has  from  me." 
it  161 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  rose  impatiently.  "It  is  absurd, 
the  way  you  attribute  all  her  qualities. 
They  come  from  God  alone,  Mary  Anne." 

"  Question  of  opinion.  You  think  so, 
I  don't.  I've  ordered  you  a  dozen  pairs 
of  new  socks.  Frieda  came  to  me  in 
tears  the  other  day, — and  I  don't  wonder. 
You  haven't  a  whole  pair." 

All  his  life  he  had  submitted,  out- 
wardly, to  her,  and  more  than  once  in- 
wardly. Now  he  sat  down  again,  and 
listened  silently  to  her  scolding. 

Then,  when  the  shadows  were  length- 
ening, when  the  air  was  full  of  the  smell 
of  wet  dust,  when  in  front  of  almost 
every  house  stood  a  "hired  man"  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  sprinkling  the  street  and 
the  lawn,  Peter  Wayne  went  home, — to 
that  home  that  had  been  so  little  of  a 
home  for  him  for  so  many  years, — leaving 
behind  him  that  other  house,  nominally 
nothing  to  him,  and  yet  in  reality  all  his 
sorrow  and  all  his  joy. 


162 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  PHIL !      I  am  going   to  kiss 
you  !" 

And  she  did,  bending  down  to  him 
with  shining  eyes. 

Wayne  laughed,  Mrs.  Gurney  smiled, 
and  Phil  Pollock  sighed,  "Beth,  Beth, 
you  tell  me  too  plainly  how  old  I  am  !" 

They  were  in  the  library,  where  a  great 
fire  burned,  and  where  the  windows  were 
shrunk  to  half  their  size  under  loads  of 
glistening  snow.  It  was  Christmas  day, 
and  Beth  had  been  at  home  two  months. 
Pollock  was  visiting  his  uncle,  and  had 
arrived  the  night  before.  He  looked  ill, 
and  more  crooked  than  ever  beside  the 
tall,  graceful  girl  in  her  exquisitely  simple 
gown,  every  line  of  which  drew  attention 
to  some  beauty  of  contour. 

"  She  has  grown  a  foot !"  he  exclaimed, 
as  she  led  him  to  the  fire  and  gave  him  a 
deep  chair. 

163 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Of  course  I  have.  And  mentally  I 
have  developed  two  feet.  I  am  twenty, 
Mr.  Phil ;  I  am  '  out ;'  I  am  a  lovely 
creature." 

"That  you  are,  though  you  say  it,  as 
shouldn't,"  he  returned.  "Beth,  before 
the  house  stands  a  cutter, — livery, — 
painted  red,  full  of  furs.  A  quadruped 
is  attached  to  it " 

She  rose  hastily.  "  Of  course  I  will. 
How  glorious !" 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  jingling 
merrily  along  over  a  very  good  country 
road,  between  high  white  banks,  under  a 
suggestively  woolly  gray  sky. 

"It  is  too  delightful !"  the  girl  said, 
pinching  her  cheeks  behind  her  muff, 
because  even  now  her  nose  would  get 
redder  than  it  should,  in  comparison. 
"And  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again. 
You  are  the  dearest  Santa  Claus  in  the 
world." 

"  Only  I've  nothing  but  pain  in  my 
hump,"  he  answered,  sharply. 

She  was  silent,  feeling  that  words  were 
164 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

dangerous.     If  he  should  grow  bitter,  her 
drive  would  be  spoiled. 

They  passed  other  sleighs,  almost 
every  one  occupied  by  a  man  and  a 
woman. 

"This  is  so  deliciously  American,"  she 
began  at  length,  bowing  to  Sally  McLean, 
with  her  latest  adorer,  a  youth  of  seven- 
teen. "  In  Europe  it  would  be  entirely 
out  of  the  question."  She  had  forgotten 
her  Bohemian  experiences,  and  spoke 
entirely  a  la  grande  dame.  "  And  it  is 
so  funny  to  come  back  here,  and  find 
the  same  people  still  flirting,  only  with 
another  person  all  around." 

"  Do  you,  for  example,  always  flirt  with 
the  same  person  ?"  he  asked,  dryly. 

"I?  Oh,  I  don't  flirt  much.  It  is 
rather  vulgar,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"  Depends  entirely  on  who  does  it. 
Now,  Beth, — this  is  a  good  time, — con- 
fess. You  haven't  forgotten  our  com- 
pact, have  you  ?" 

"  Oh,     no,"     she     answered,     slowly  ; 

«  only " 

165 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Only  you  have  nothing  to  confess  ?" 

Then  she  burst  out  laughing.  "  Only 
— I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

He  laughed  too.  "  Let  me  help  you, 
then,  as  the  priests  do.  You  must  begin 
far  back, — that  summer  I  was  here. 
When  I  left,  you  were  rather ,  miserable 
about  that  beautiful  person, — I  forget  his 
name." 

"Gordon  Blair.  Oh,  yes.  Very  un- 
happy. It  is  so  delicious  to  be  unhappy. 
By  the  way,  I  must  call  you  Phil.  May 
I?  'Mr.'  Phil  is  so  absurd." 

"  Phil,  by  all  means.  Well,  who  ob- 
literated Blair?" 

"  Oswald  Courtney- Yorke,  an  English- 
man who  came  on  for  his  wedding.  He 
was  ugly,  but  very  nice,  and  then  Eng- 
lish, you  know.  The  first  one  we  ever 

had  in  Deepwater.      Sally  McLean 

By  the  way,  did  you  know  that  Francois, 
the  Pocahontas  steward,  used  to  call  her 
'  The  lady  with  the  golden  teeth'  ?  Well, 
she  went  in  for  him  tooth-and-nail,  so  to 
speak  ;  but  I  got  him." 
166 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Did  he  propose  to  you  ?" 

She  laughed  again.  "  No.  That's 
just  the  joke.  Every  one  thought  he 
did ;  but  he  didn't.  I  was  really  rather 
blue  for  a  time,  and  then  grandmother 
decided  to  let  me  go  to  Europe  with 
Miss  Sally,  and  that  cured  me." 

"Next?" 

"  Next, — oh,  a  lot  of  little  boobies,  one 
after  another,  you  know.  A  German,  on 
the  ship, — he  had  a  lovely  voice, — then 
an  Italian  officer,  in  Florence, — and  so 
on.  No  one  of  any  importance  until  we 
reached  Rome." 

"  And  all  this  time  you  kept  up  your 
reputation  for  being  indifferent?" 

"  Of  course  I  did.  It  is  odd,  that  pas- 
sion with  me.  I  always  curl  up,  and 
don't  let  any  ragged  edges  hang  out, — 
you  know  what  I  mean.  And  then  I  am 
so  egotistic  !  Here  I  am  enjoying  talk- 
ing about  myself!  it's  awful." 

"  You  may  enjoy  it.  You  are  interest- 
ing," he  answered,  turning  in  at  the  club 
gates. 

167 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Then,  as  they  flew  over  the  well-beaten- 
down  snow,  "And  in  Rome?" 

"Well,  in  Rome, — in  Rome,  you  see, 
— remember,  all  this  is  under  the  seal  of 
confession." 

"  Of  course.     In  Rome  ?" 

"We,  Sally  Frazer  and  I,  did  a  very 
silly  thing.  It  was  rather  fun,  but  awfully 
silly.  We  went  and  lived  for  three  months 
among  the  art  students  and  such  people 
of  the  city.  We  had  an  apartment, 
and  everything  was  thoroughly  Bohe- 
mian." 

"Dirty?  The  genuine  article  is, 
rather." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  Some  of  them  were 
rather  frowsy.  But  I  didn't  mind  par- 
ticularly. I  never  do  mind  things  much. 
That  is,  I  adapt  myself  at  once.  It  was 
really  fun,  though  we  grew  rather  vulgar. 
Then  Billy  Curtis  came,  and  upset  every- 
thing. There  was  some  sort  of  a  row, 
—but  I  don't  quite  know  what.  He  was 
very  nice,  Billy." 

"  But  before  that,  who  was  the  man  ?" 
168 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  A  Frenchman.  A  count.  Titles  are 
rather  enchanting,  and  he  had  a  horrible 
charm  for  me.  He  didn't  care  a  bit  for 
me,  though." 

"And  hence  the  charm." 

"Perhaps,"  she  laughed,  as  they  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  club-house. 

They  ordered  coffee,  and  talked  to 
two  or  three  people  who  were  there 
while  drinking  it.  Fran£ois  had  left, 
and  an  Englishman  occupied  his  place. 
Beth  was  sorry,  as  she  told  Pollock 
when  they  were  once  more  in  the  cut- 
ter. "  He  admired  me, — Fra^ois, — and 
he  looked  like  a  man  who  had  seen 
things." 

On  the  way  home  she  told  him  the 
story  of  the  rescue  by  the  princess,  and 
her  subsequent  gayeties. 

"  She  must  have  been  delightful,"  he 
observed. 

"  She  was.     And  very  nice  to  me.     I 
was   only  a  caprice,   of  course, — one  of 
many, — but   it  was    an    experience,   and 
interesting  in  every  way." 
169 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  How  do  you  know  you  were  a 
caprice  ?"  he  asked,  turning  and  looking 
at  her. 

"  Because  I  do.  One  always  knows, 
if  one  wants  to.  The  longer  I  live,  the 
more  I  wonder  at  the  way  people  shut 
up  their  eyes  and  their  ears,  and  tell 
themselves  fairy-tales." 

"You  are  young  to  have  arrived  at 
that  discovery." 

"Yes,  I  am  young.  But  oh,  Phil, 
things  do  so  interest  me !  And  curi- 
osity is  a  progressive  quality.  I  learn 
so  many  things  every  day,  and  it  is  such 
fun  !" 

Her  cheeks  were  red,  her  eyes  wide 
open.  He  watched  her  in  silence. 

"Some  day,  when  you  are  very  old, 
Beth,  you  must  write  your  '  Impres- 
sions.' " 

"I  shouldn't  mind, — only  they  would 
have  to  come  out  anonymously, — or  post- 
mortem." 

"  Another  thing :  what  about  your  con- 
science ?     Honour  bright." 
170 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Honour  bright,  Phil,  I  have  none, — 
though  I  pretend  to.  I  really  believe  I 
could  do  anything,  short  of  killing  my 
grandmother,  without  one  pang.  I  can 
lie  r  She  spread  out  her  hands,  broad- 
ened in  her  fur-lined  gloves,  in  a  little 
gesture  new  to  him.  "  I  can  lie  in  a  way 
I  know  must  be  rare.  It  is  not  a  mere 
talent ;  it  is  a  genius.  And  then  when  I 
pose,  I  do  it  so  well  that  I  believe  in 
myself  for  the  time.  They  say  Duse 
does  that,  and  that  Bernhardt  doesn't.  I 
know  I  do,  and  it  must  be  convincing, 
don't  you  think  ?" 

Pollock  laughed  aloud.  "  My  dear  girl, 
you  are  splendid  !"  he  said.  "  Of  course 
it's  convincing.  But  don't  you  often  run 
against  other  people  in  your  mad  career, 
— hurt  feelings,  and  so  on  ?" 

She  paused  a  minute,  and  then  said, 
reflectively,  "  No,  honestly,  I  don't  think 
I  do.  I  loathe  hurting  people,  and  I 
loathe  scenes,  you  know.  Besides,  I'm 
too  self-engrossed  to  meddle  with  other 
people's  affairs." 

m 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

They  drew  up  at  the  house,  and  she 
broke  off:  "  There's  dear  old  Uncle  Peter 
coming  to  meet  us.  I  do  love  him,  Phil. 
You  don't  know !" 

Her  eyes  were  wet. 


172 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MISS  GURNEY,  this  is  mine." 
She  turned  slowly.  She  had 
learned  to  move  slowly  in  the  last  year, 
and  it  was  becoming.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Sears, 
is  it  really  ours?"  Shifting  her  bouquet, 
she  took  his  arm,  and  they  joined  the 
dancers. 

She  had  been  to  three  dances  already 
in  the  week  she  had  been  in  Boston  as 
Kitty  Wendell's  guest,  and  her  terror  of 
not  being  a  success — a  very  real  terror, 
though  utterly  unsuspected  by  any  one — 
had  melted  away  in  the  sun  of  favour  that 
had  beamed  on  her  from  the  first. 

Young  Sears,  a  Harvard  man,  just 
graduated,  was  in  love  with  her.  He 
was  a  youth  of  his  time,  cool,  clear- 
headed, with  a  full  determination  not  to 
"make  a  fool  of  himself."  That  she  felt, 
and  rather  resented.  But  he  danced 
173 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

well,  and  the  music  was  "The  Swallows 
under  the  Eaves,"  her  white  satin  gown 
was  a  Paquin,  and  the  girl,  who  danced 
with  a  keen  delight  few  people  know, 
was  perfectly  happy. 

With  her  bizarre  love  of  the  methodi- 
cal, she  had  arranged  for  her  use  in  the 
world  three  maxims :  "  Never  to  be  re- 
duced to  a  one-stringed  bow ;  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  to  show  pique ; 
and  to  admire  other  women." 

"Who  is  the  lovely  little  brown  girl 
talking  to  Mr.  Eccles  ?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently, as  they  stopped  dancing. 

Monty  Eccles  was  an  old-young  man, 
a  "rusher," — Anglice,  offerer  of  vivid, 
meaningless  attentions  to  pretty  women. 

"  That's  a  Miss  Ingersoll,  of  Baltimore, 
—a  sister  of  Mrs.  Tony  Welbeck,"  re- 
turned Sears,  opening  her  fan  and  bend- 
ing his  satiny,  mouse-colored  head  over 
it. 

"  She  is  wonderfully  pretty  !" 

Beth  herself  did  not  realize  that  there 
lay  in  her  voice  and  manner  an  almost 
174 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

ludicrous  resemblance  to  the  old  Princess 
Casavecchia. 

"Oh,  yes;  she's  pretty  enough.  Too 
dark  for  me." 

"  And  the  big  man  with  the  mutton- 
chops  ?" 

"Count  Schwarzenburg,  the  German 
ambassador.  He's  very  devoted  to  Mrs. 
Ladislaw.  Miss  Gurney,  why  didn't  you 
carry  my  flowers  ?" 

"  I  carried  your  flowers  last  night." 

"That's  no  reason.  Tell  me, — who 
sent  you  these?" 

She  laughed.     "  I  bought  them  myself." 

It  was  true.  Her  bouquet  of  red  roses 
had  cost  her  over  ten  dollars.  But  of 
course  he  did  not  believe  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  my  sister's  dinner 
to-morrow  ?"  he  went  on. 

"I  am,  indeed." 

"  May  I  send  you  some  violets  ?" 

"Yes.  Thanks,  very  much,  Mr. 
Sears." 

Just  then  a  beautiful  woman,  in  a  gown 
more  conspicuous  for  quality  than  for 
175 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

quantity,  passed  with  an  elderly  man. 
Beth  asked  who  she  was,  and  learned 
that  she  was  Mrs.  Morris  Devereux. 

"  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  a  little  shiver  of 
pity  coming  over  her.  It  was  the  woman 
whom  poor,  crooked  Phil  Pollock 
loved. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  she  added. 

"  One  of  the  finest." 

As  the  boy  answered,  Monty  Eccles, 
gleaming  as  to  face  and  bald  head,  out 
of  breath  and  puffing  a  little,  came  up 
and  claimed  his  waltz. 

Beth,  like  many  tall  women,  danced 
very  well,  and  did  not  in  the  least  mind 
dancing  with  small  men,  and  Monty 
Eccles,  in  spite  of  his  decided  rotundity, 
waltzed  beautifully. 

Her  next  partner  was  Herbert  Water- 
man, a  mighty  hunter,  but  a  terrifying 
dancer. 

"I  think  our  young  friend  Monty  is  in 
love  with  you,  Miss  Gurney,"  he  said,  as, 
feigning  fatigue,  she  stopped,  and  took 
his  arm. 

176 


She  laughed.  "  But  am  I  his  first 
love  ?  Voila  la  question  /" 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  up,  and  there, 
across  the  room  from  her,  leaning  against 
the  door,  she  saw  Gordon  Blair. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  that  made  her 
satin  corsage  creak,  and  her  hand  quivered 
a  minute  on  Waterman's  arm.  Then  she 
said,  "It  is  so  warm ;  can  we  not  sit 
down  ?" 

Her  voice  thrilled  herself  in  its  new 
sweetness  as  she  spoke.  A  few  minutes 
later  she  saw  Blair  talking  to  Mrs.  Dev- 
ereux. 

"  Stunning  couple,  aren't  they  ?"  Sears 
asked. 

"  Yes.  He  used  to  be  perfectly  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Do  you  know  Blair  ?" 

Beth  laughed.  "  Oh,  yes.  He  was 
born  in  '  our  village.'  But  I  daresay  he's 
forgotten  me." 

For  two  dances  Blair  did  not  move,  then 
he  rose,  and  offering  his  arm  to  the  beauti- 
ful, diamond-crowned  woman,  they  danced. 

12  I77 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

At  length,  as  Beth  sat  talking  to  some- 
one, Blair  came  up  to  her.  "How  do 
you  do,  Miss  Gurney  ;  have  you  forgotten 
me?" 

She  started,  and  then  cried  frankly, 
holding  out  her  hand,  "Of  course  I 
haven't,  Mr.  Blair.  I'm  awfully  glad  to 
see  you.  Is  Miss  Anna  here,  too  ?" 

"  No.  '  Miss  Anna'  is  in  New  York. 
May  I  sit  down  ?" 

The  other  man  bowed  himself  away, 
and  Blair  took  his  chair.  "  Have  you 
been  here  long  ?" 

He  spoke  with  a  drawl  that  she  felt  to 
be  affected,  but  she  liked  it.  She  noticed 
that  his  curly  hair  was  sprinkled  with  gray. 

"  I've  been  here  a  week,  Mr. ,  ab- 
surd! I  was  going  to  call  you  '  Mr.  Gor- 
don.' Such  babyish  habits  do  cling  to 
one.  Isn't  it  a  heavenly  ball  ?" 

A  few  minutes  before  she  had  been 
talking  in  the  most  blase  way  to  young 
Sears,  and,  realizing  herself  the  inevitable 
swing  of  her  mental  pendulum,  she  bit 
her  lip  to  suppress  a  smile. 
178 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Very  heavenly,"  Blair  answered,  his 
dark  eyes  laughing.  "  And  you  girls,  of 
course,  are  the  angels." 

"What  could  be  more  banal?"  she 
thought  with  a  touch  of  impatience,  while 
she  answered,  "I  won't  be  laughed  at. 
It  is  a  perfect  ball,  and  Boston  men  dance 
so  beautifully." 

"Do  they?"  he  returned,  smiling  the 
New  York  smile.  "  May  I  have  a  turn  ?" 

She  sighed  when  they  stopped  dancing. 
"  Please  ask  me  for  another  dance  later, 
will  you  ?  It  is  very  '  cheeky'  of  me,  ask- 
ing you,  but  we're  old  friends." 

His  eyes  half  closed  as  he  laughed 
again.  "  Of  course  we're  old  friends, 
and  of  course  I'll  be  charmed  if  you'll 
honour  me.  Here  comes  that  rampaging 
Hazard  boy." 

"  I  love  rampaging  the  two-step  with 
him.  Good-bye." 

After  supper  she  expected  him  again, 
but  he  did  not  come.  Indeed,  he  stayed 
in  the  supper-room  over  an  hour  with 
Mrs.  Devereux. 

179 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Beth  danced  every  dance,  her  cheeks  a 
deep  pink  with  excitement  and  anger. 

It  grew  late ;  people  began  to  leave. 
The  thin  women  began  to  look  haggard, 
the  fat  ones  blowsy.  Collars  were  limp, 
and  bouquets  were  rags.  Then  at  last 
he  came,  laughing  back  at  Mrs.  Devereax 
over  his  shoulder. 

Beth  clutched  her  fan  tight.  "  Now 
don't  you  be  a  fool,  and  let  him  see  that 
you're  angry,  Beth  Gurney,"  she  told 
herself. 

"  Our  dance,  is  it  not  ?" 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "  Ours  ?  No, 
— it  is  Mr.  Kane's  ;  isn't  it,  Mr.  Kane  ?" 

Mr.  Kane,  who  was  a  bore  of  celebrity, 
answered  with  delight,  "Certainly  it  is, 
Miss  Gurney." 

"  I  am  afraid  I've  bungled,  Mr.  Blair, — 
you  will  forgive  me.  Mr.  Kane  is  telling 
me  his  experiences  in  the  blizzard." 

Blair  bowed  and  turned  away. 

"  So  you  were  four  hours  in  the  train  ?" 
he   heard   her   say   with   keen    interest. 
"Do  tell  me  the  rest." 
180 


CHAPTER    IX 

"  T  LOVE  him.  I  have  always  loved 
A  him.  That  is  very  simple.  The 
next  question  is,  '  Does  he  love  me  ?'  If 
that  were  as  simple,  the  interest  would 
be  greatly  less.  However,  I  shall  soon 
know. 

"And  my  game  is  evidently  that  of  an- 
noying him.  I  will  treat  him  as  though 
he  were  quite  antediluvian,  and  be  ly in- 
genue in  every  way.  He  is  vain,  he  is 
not  very  clever,  and  he  is  entirely  unused 
to  such  behaviour  on  the  part  of  young 
women.  It  will  irritate  him.  Vogue  la 
galere.  To-night  I  will  add  the  result 
of  my  first  day's  campaign.  Now  I  must 
go  down  to  luncheon." 

She  locked  the  book,  now  nearly  full 
of  impressions  and  discussions  with  her- 
self, hung  the  key  on  the  chain  around 
her  neck,  and  went  down-stairs. 
181 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Mrs.  Wendell  was  playing  with  her 
little  boy  in  the  library.  "  Oh,  you  darl- 
ing !"  cried  Beth,  kneeling  by  the  child 
and  kissing  him.  "  Give  your  Aunt  Bet 
a  kiss."  Little  Mat  received  her  caresses 
gravely.  He  was  rather  a  heavy  child  of 
a  year  old,  with  eyes  curiously  like  Blair's. 

"  He  will  be  a  beauty,  Kitty,"  the  girl 
said,  as  she  rose  and  shook  down  her 
skirts.  "  I  think  Mr.  Gordon  used  to  be 
quite  the  handsomest  being  I  ever  be- 
held." 

"Used  to  be,  Beth!" 

"Oh,  of  course — he  is  still  awfully 
good-looking,"  she  returned,  with  a  shade 
of  embarrassment ;  "but,  of  course, — he  is 
older  now, — for  his  age,  though,  he  is 
handsomer  than  any  one  I've  ever  seen." 

Kitty  Wendell's  sisterly  pride  was  hurt 
for  a  minute,  then  she  laughed.  "  Oh, 
you  goose,"  she  cried.  "What  a  baby 
you  are  !  He  is  only  thirty-two." 

Beth   could   hardly  repress    a  cry  of 
jubilation   as   the    door   opened   at   this 
instant  and  Blair  came  in. 
182 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  lazily,  bowing 
to  Beth,  and  shoving  the  baby  gently  out 
of  his  way  with  one  foot,  that  he  might 
stand  before  the  fire.  "Who  is  only 
thirty-two  ?" 

"  You,"  answered  his  sister.  "  Never 
mind,  Beth,  I  shan't  tell."  She  laughed 
teasingly. 

"Tell  if  you  like, — we  were  talking 
about  you,  Mr.  Gordon  ;  didn't  your  ears 
burn  ?  I  was  confessing  the  secrets  of 
my  young  heart." 

"  Delightful !  And  I  have  a  place 
there  ?" 

"Ingratitude  of  men,"  she  cried,  sol- 
emnly. "  Here  am  I,  who  wasted  the 
young  love  of  my  heart  on  you,  burning 
silent  incense  for  years  at  your  shrine, — 
and  you  didn't  even  know  it." 

"You  ridiculous  monkey!"  laughed 
Kitty.  "Tell  us  about  it." 

"  Oh,  we  were  all  desperately  in  love 
with  Mr.  Gordon, — Bella  Lacy  and  Maud, 
and  Clara  Hill, — all  of  '  us  girls,'  up  to 
at  least  fifteen." 

183 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  May  I  ask  who  was  my  successor  in 
your  interesting  affections  ?" 

"Mr.  Hamilton  Harper." 

Blair  groaned.  "  Good  Heavens  !  this 
is  awful !  And  do  you  still  adore  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  That  ended  when  I  went  to 
Florida.  What  geese  girls  are!  I  feel 
myself  now,  at  twenty,  very  aged  and 
very  wise,  but  I  suppose,  even  now,  you 
older  people  think  me  a  silly  baby." 

"I  never  thought  you  silly,"  he  an- 
swered, carelessly,  as  the  man  announced 
luncheon. 

Note  added  to  Beth's  almost  word-for- 
word  memorandum  of  the  conversation 
written  that  night :  "He  was  piqued, 
though  he  didn't  show  it." 

She  did  not  see  Blair  again  until  the 
following  evening  at  a  dance,  when  he 
came  in  very  late. 

Young  Sears  was  troubling  her.  She 
saw  in  his  eyes  that  which  she  hated, — 
emotion,  and  the  promise  of  a  scene. 

Twice  she  danced  with  the  boy,  refus- 
ing to  sit  out  with  him.  Then  at  last  he 
184 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

caught  her,  and  began  to  pour  out   his 
tale. 

Her  heart  beat  sickeningly  in  her 
throat ;  she  hated  him  ;  she  wanted  to 
laugh  at  him  ;  he  was  absurd.  Then 
suddenly  Blair  came  towards  them,  and 
with  an  imploring  face  she  called  him. 
"  Here  I  am,  Mr  Blair, — you  are  looking 
for  me,  are  you  not  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  said, 
"  Yes.  This  is  ours,  Miss  Gurney." 

She  rose  hastily,  excused  herself  to 
Sears,  and  took  Blair's  arm.  "  Do  you 
mind  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  little  shiver  of 
relief.  "I  couldn't  help  it " 

"Delighted,  I  am  sure,  but " 

"  But  you  think  me  very  brazen.  I  know 
I  was,  Mr.  Gordon,  but  I  was  in  despair." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  '  Mr. 
Gordon  ;'  it  is  ridiculous,  Beth.  I  am  not 
quite  ancient  enough  for  that,"  he  ex- 
claimed, irritably,  as  they  began  to  dance. 

She  flushed  with  satisfaction.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  always  used  to  call  you 
that,  you  know." 

185 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Sears  was  making  love  to  you,  wasn't 
he  ?"  he  went  on. 

"  Ugh  !  I  couldn't  get  away  from  him. 
It  was  ghastly." 

"Glad  I  happened  along.  Do  you 
really  hate  it  so  ?" 

They  had  stopped  waltzing  and  sat 
down.  "Of  course  I  do.  Probably  I 
shan't  some  day,  when  my  Prince  Charm- 
ing comes,  but  until  then  -  " 

"  So  you  intend  to  marry  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do.  As  Napoleon  said  : 
'  If  men  never  grew  old,  marriage  would 
be  a  mistake,  but  as  they  do,1  —  it's  the 
same  with  women.  What  could  be  sad- 
der than  being  old  and  alone  ?  Shouldn't 
you  hate  it?" 

He  frowned  suddenly,  and  then  an- 
swered, "  Of  course,  the  married  state  is 
a  state  of  blessedness.  If  you  hate  being 
made  love  to,  why  do  you  flirt  ?" 

"  I  ?    Flirt  ?    I  never  flirted  in  my  life  !" 

Blair  laughed  aloud. 


Then  what  do  you  call  flirting  ?" 

186 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

She  paused,  looking  closely  at  her  fan. 
"  Well, — you  flirted  with  that  girl  at 
Kitty's  wedding.  I  was  only  a  child,  but 
I  remember." 

"  If  you  were  only  a  child,  how  did  you 
know?" 

"  Now  you  are  teasing  me.  Ah, 
here  comes  that  Mr.  Chose,  who  dances 
so  well.  Thanks  awfully  for  rescuing 
me." 

The  next  afternoon,  towards  dark,  as 
she  came  home  from  the  rehearsal  of  a 
comedy  in  which  she  was  to  act,  she  met 
Blair,  and  they  walked  up  the  street  to- 
gether. It  was  snowing,  and  the  girl's 
sealskin  jacket  was  covered  with  flakes. 
Under  her  broad,  black  hat  her  face  was 
rosily  pale.  She  was  enjoying  the  rare 
pleasure  of  looking  up  at  the  man  to 
whom  she  talked. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  dance  to-night  ?" 
she  asked,  as  they  neared  the  house. 

"  No.  I  am  too  old  for  a  debutantes' 
ball." 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  how 
187 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

old  you  are,  as  long  as  you  dance  well. 
None  of  the  girls  care." 

"  Very  kind  of  the  girls,"  he  answered, 
drily. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  again  until 
they  stood  before  the  door,  and  he  had 
rung. 

Then  she  said  hastily,  laying  her  slim 
hand  on  his  arm,  "I  wonder  if  you'd 
come  if  I  asked  you  ?" 

He  bent  over  in  the  gathering  darkness 
to  look  into  her  eyes.  "  You  might  try." 

"  I  do  ask  you.     Please  ?" 

"Then  I  will  come." 

The  door  opened  just  then,  and  Beth 
ran  up-stairs  without  looking  around. 

During  dinner  she  awaited  eagerly 
Blair's  announcement  of  his  intention. 
"If  he  mentions  me,"  she  thought,  "I 
may  as  well  give  it  up,  if  he  doesn't " 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal  Blair 
drawled  to  Mrs.  Wendell,  "Save  me  a 
waltz,  Kitty.  I  have  decided  to  renew 
my  youth  by  dancing  at  the  Talbot's." 
And  Beth  was  content. 
188 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

After  dinner  Wendell  went  to  the 
theatre,  Kitty  for  her  usual  sleep  before 
dressing,  and  Blair  disappeared.  Beth 
drew  a  chair  to  the  library  fire  and  sat 
down.  The  lamps  were  low ;  the  red 
fire-light  shot  unsteady  arrows  of  bril- 
liance across  the  gloom  ;  the  grandfather's 
clock  in  the  corner  ticked  slumberously. 

When  the  girl  awoke,  it  was  with  a 
feeling  of  gratitude  to  the  gods  that  she 
had  really  slept,  and  that  Blair  had  come 
in.  He  sat  opposite  her,  smoking  a 
cigarette. 

"I  was  almost  asleep,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Quite,  I  should  say.  Do  you  re- 
member one  time  I  found  you  asleep  at 
home, — in  Deep  water?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     Grandmamma  was  ill." 

"I — kissed  you  while  you  slept." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "You  didn't ! 
How  absurd." 

"  You  are  not  annoyed  ?" 

"  Annoyed  ?    No,  of  course  not.    Why 
should  I  be  ?     I  was  only  a  baby." 
189 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  rose  impatiently,  and  threw  his 
cigarette  into  the  fire.  "You  were  six- 
teen. Just  hear  the  wind  !  I  don't  think 
I'll  go  out  to-night,  it's  beastly." 

"  But  you  promised !"  In  the  faint 
light  her  face  was  oddly  childlike. 

"  Oh,  yes, — but  you'll  give  me  back  my 
word.  We  old  people  like  our  quiet  in 
the  evenings."  Then  with  a  short  laugh, 
he  added,  "Besides, — you  don't  really 
care  whether  I  go  or  not." 

She  rose  and  came  to  him.  She  was 
very  serious  now,  and  the  childishness 
had  left  her  face.  "  But, — I  do  care.  I 
want  you." 

"  Is  that  true,  or  are  you  laughing  at 
me?" 

"  It  is  true.     Will  you  come  ?" 

After  a  pause,  he  answered,  slowly,  look- 
ing at  her  steadily,  "  Yes,  I  will  come." 

Then,  without  speaking,  she  left  the 
room. 

An  hour  later  a  magnificent  bunch  of 
violets  was  brought  to  her.  There  was 
no  card. 

190 


CHAPTER  X 

EXTRACT  from  the  locked  book: 
"  Co,  marche.  It  is  progressing. 
Yesterday  he  had  a  letter  that  annoyed 
him.  After  luncheon  I  met  him  in  the 
hall.  'Mr.  Blair,'  I  said,  gently,  'some- 
thing troubles  you.' 

"  He  turned  his  beautiful,  sad  eyes  on 
me  and  answered,  '  Yes,  Beth, — some- 
thing often  does  trouble  me.' 

"  '  Of  course  I  know  you  think  me  too 
young  to  understand  anything,  and  I 
don't  ask  you  what  it  is.  Only,  may  I 
say  how  sorry  I  am  ?' 

"  He  took  my  hand  and  looked  at  me 
seriously.  I  wonder  that  he  didn't  notice 
how  icy  cold  my  hand  was. 

"'Thank    you,    child,'    he    answered. 
That  was  all.    But  according  to  my  way  of 
thinking,  every  new  phase  one  can  present 
to  a  man  is  a  new  weapon  against  him. 
191 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"The  last  night  at  the  opera  I  hardly 
looked  at  him.  George  Murray  was 
there,  and  very  devoted. 

"He  is  a  very  good  'string/  being 
handsome  and  rather  old.  Kitty  thinks 
he's  in  love  with  me,  and  has  probably 
told  Gordon  so,  for  he,  Gordon,  was  dis- 
tinctly irritated,  and  leaving  us  early,  went 
and  sat  with  the  Kings,  with  whom  Mrs. 
Devereux  was. 

"  I  saw  him  watching  me  a  good  deal, 
but  of  course  I  didn't  look  at  him.  He 
is  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  human 
being  I  ever  saw,  in  spite  of  being  a  wee 
bit  tenor-ish.  To-night,  after  the  theat- 
ricals, there  is  to  be  a  dance.  I  suppose 
my  turn  for  retribution  is  come.  Turn 
about  is  fair  play,  and  things  always  do 
take  a  turn.  I'm  going  to  wear  pink,  for 
when  I'm  angry  I  always  get  so  frightfully 
pale. 

4  A.M. 

"  I  was  right.     Oh,  my  God,  my  God  ! 
1  love  him !     I  could  die  happy  if  I  only 
knew  that  he  loves  me.     But  he  does  not. 
192 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  has  only  flirted  with  me.  And  I  am 
a  vain,  ignorant,  little  ass.  Why  should 
he  look  at  me  ? 

"To-morrow,  of  course,  I'll  be  better, 
and  half  of  my  pain  comes  from  over- 
fatigue,  but  just  now  I  wish  I  could  die  ; 
I  didn't  know  I  could  be  so  unhappy. 
The  comedy  was  good,  and  I  acted  much 
better  than  the  others.  Then  he  came  up 
and  congratulated  me,  with  lots  of  other 
people,  all  of  whom  I  should  have  liked 
to  kill,  and  then  he  went  away,  and  talked 
and  danced  all  the  evening  with  a  strange 
girl,  a  Miss  Edison, — a  Southerner.  She 
is  awfully  pretty,  much  prettier  than  I  am. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy.  I  love  him  so. 
Why  must  I  love  him  ?  Why  was  I  ever 
born  ?  why why  anything  and  every- 
thing?" 

She  cried  herself  to  sleep,  fully  con- 
vinced that  Blair  had  only  been  amusing 
himself  with  her.  Then  she  awoke  with 
the  sun  streaming  in  at  her  window,  and, 
utterly  without  new  influences,  her  heart 
rose. 

'3  193 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  He  does  care,"  she  told  herself,  laugh- 
ing at  herself  in  the  glass.  "  He  does." 

Loving  the  man,  helplessly  attracted 
to  him  by  the  poor  fact  of  his  beauty, 
even  while  her  keen  mind  realized  dis- 
tinctly his  decided  mental  mediocrity,  that 
which  she  wanted,  that  for  which  she  was 
struggling,  was  a  declaration  of  love  from 
him. 

If  he  would  tell  her  in  so  many  words 
that  he  loved  her,  she  would,  she  thought, 
be  contented. 

She  was  rather  fond  of  Anna  Blair  in 
a  condescending  way,  and  would  have 
shrunk  from  giving  her  pain.  And  with 
all  her  precociousness,  the  girl  was  in 
some  ways  astoundingly  childlike,  and  her 
imagination  stopped  short  at  the  scene  in 
which  he  should  declare  his  love  to  her, 
and  she  confess  hers  to  him. 

She  had  no  fantastic  idea  of  not  marry- 
ing for  his  sake.  She  had  even  her  own 
dreams  of  a  noble  being  with  a  poetic 
soul  and  much  money,  who  should  one 
day  be  her  husband. 
194 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Yet  Gordon  Blair  must  love  her  to 
complete  her  life.  An  unhappy  love — a 
sad  souvenir — the  memory  of  his  beauti- 
ful face  distorted  by  strong  feeling — these 
things  she  wanted,  and  on  them  her 
strong  will  was  bent. 

She  had  all  her  life  had  a  mania  for 
"rounding  things  off."  Even  needle- 
work, which  she  detested,  she  always  fin- 
ished, for  the  satisfaction  of  telling  her- 
self, "  Now,  that 's  done." 

And  the  scene  with  Blair  was  to  be  the 
rounding  off  of  that  which  she  destined 
to  her  future  life  as  her  first  love. 

He  was,  she  knew,  a  man  of  honour. 
She  quite  realized  the  difficulties  before 
her.  But  she  had  made  up  her  mind, 
and  now,  this  snowy  morning,  shut  her 
teeth  hard,  and  determined  to  "forge 
ahead." 

When  she  was  dressed  she  went 
through  a  silly  little  formula  of  her  own, 
that  was  a  relic  of  her  childhood.  Draw- 
ing a  circle  with  her  finger  on  the  car- 
pet, she  muttered  mysteriously:  "Abra 
195 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

cadabra  cadabra, — let  me  have  my  wish, 
witches  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon." 

Then  laughing  at  herself,  she  went 
down-stairs.  At  her  plate  lay  a  letter,  in 
a  hand  she  had  never  seen.  She  slipped 
it  into  her  pocket  unopened.  "It  is 
the  answer  to  my  charm,"  she  thought, 
happily. 

When  luncheon  was  over  she  went  to 
her  room  and  read  her  letter,  her  face 
paling  and  reddening  in  turns. 

Then  she  came  down  to  Mrs.  Wendell, 
and  excused  herself  from  going  to  a 
reception  that  afternoon.  "  I  am  tired, 
and  think  I'd  better  rest, — on  account  of 
the  ball  to-night,  you  know." 

Four  o'clock  came,  and  Beth,  who  had 
really  slept,  went  down  to  the  library 
and  rang  for  tea.  "Is  Mr.  Wendell  not 
at  home?"  she  asked  the  butler. 

"  No,  miss." 

"Mr.  Blair?" 

"  Yes,  miss.  Mr.  Blair  has  just  come 
in." 

"  Tell  Mr.  Blair  that  I  am  making  tea, 
196 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Hawkes,  and  ask  him  if  he  will  not  come 
down,"  she  said. 

A  few  minutes  later  Blair  came  in. 

"Do  you  mind?"  she  asked.  "I  was 
alone." 

"  So  you  asked  me  to  come  down. 
You  are  flattering,  as  usual."  He  sat 
down  and  smiled  lazily  at  her. 

"  Ah,  but  perhaps  I  am  really  flattering 
this  time,  Mr.  Blair.  One  reason  I  sent 
to  you  was I  want  to  ask  your  ad- 
vice about  something.  May  I  ?" 

"Of  course.     What  is  it?" 

She  poured  out  the  tea,  and  then  an- 
swered quickly,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  I 
had  a  letter  this  morning, — from  a — a 
man  I  knew  in  Rome.  Duke  Rocca- 
bianca.  He  is  here, — and  is  coming  to  see 
me  this  afternoon, — between  five  and  six." 

Blair  stirred  his  tea.     "  And ?" 

"  He  is  going  to  ask  me  to  marry  him. 
And  I — I  am  very  young,  I  have  no  father, 
— I  want  you  to  advise  me.  Will  you  ?" 

"  Of  course,"    he    returned,    laughing 
shortly.     "Tell  me  about  him." 
1-97 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Well,  he  is — quite  old, — thirty-five; 
he  is  rich,  I  believe,  and  I  like  him  very 
much." 

The  clock  ticked  slowly  in  the  silence. 
Then  Blair  asked,  "  Do  you  love  him  ?" 

"  I — don't  know.  He  is  very  nice  and 
amusing." 

He  leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand. 
"  Beth,  you  mustn't  marry  him." 

"Why?" 

"  Because — you  don't  realize  what  it 
means,  a  marriage  without  love.  Dear, 
it  is  a  hell  on  earth, — a  hell  on  earth." 
Rising,  he  walked  to  the  fire  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  her. 

She  was  brilliantly  pale  and  breathing 
hard. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  she  said,  hoarsely, 
"that  I  don't  think  I'll  ever  love  any  one. 
I  seem  to  be  very  cold  by  nature." 

Then  he  burst  out  laughing  and  came 
back. 

"  You  ?  You  cold  ?  My  dear  child  ! 
No.  You  must  wait.  Tell  him  you  can- 
not marry  him.  You  must  not  marry  him." 
198 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

He  stood  looking  into  her  eyes  for  ten 
seconds,  and  then  said  slowly,  "  Promise 
me,  dear." 

And  very  softly,  with  passionate  eyes, 
she  answered,  "I  promise." 


199 


CHAPTER  XI 

THAT  night,  at  a  dance,  she  said  to 
him,  carelessly,  "Oh,  by  the  way, 
— I  have  broken  my  promise." 

"  Have  you  ?" 

"Yes.     I  found  that " 

"  May  I  wish  you  joy  ?" 

"  Not  just  yet.  He  is  going  to  travel 
about  for  a  few  months,  and  then,  in  the 
spring,  it  is  to  be  announced." 

"Ah!  After  all,  there's  no  waltz  like 
the  dear  old  Blue  Danube,  is  there  ?" 

When  the  waltz  was  over  he  left  her, 
and  did  not  speak  to  her  again  all  the 
evening. 

The  next  day  she  was  to  go  home,  and 
now,  as  the  minutes  passed,  she  literally 
cursed  herself  for  her  idiocy  in  spoiling 
everything. 

"  I  love  him,  and  he  loves  me,  and  I  am 
such  a  fool  I  have  ruined  it  all,"  she  cried 
to  herself,  fiercely. 

200 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  He  is  not  such  a  fool  as  I  thought, 
and  I  am  a  vain  goose.  I'm  not  clever, 
after  all,  and  I  am  such  a  baby  !  He  has 
amused  himself,  and  now — e  finito  !  And 
yet  his  eyes.  His  dear,  dear  eyes  !" 

Once  she  met  his  direct  gaze  across  the 
room,  and  the  pain  in  it  delighted  her, 
while  it  hurt  her  bitterly. 

She  danced  all  night,  and  was  very 
gay,  while  her  heart,  her  physical  heart, 
ached. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Blair 
helped  the  two  women  out  of  the  car- 
riage, and  together  they  went  up  the 
snowy  steps. 

It  was  the  last  time.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  They  went  in  and  sat  down 
to  the  usual  early  morning  supper  of 
bouillon  or  milk. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  tired !"  yawned  Kitty. 

Wendell  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Quar- 
ter to  four.  Absurd  life  it  is." 

Beth  drank  a  glass  of  milk  in  silence, 
and  then  rose.  As  she  did  so,  Mrs. 
Wendell  turned  and  said  something  to 

2OI 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

her  husband,  and  Blair's  black  eyes  met 
the  girl's  brown  ones.  At  last  he  had 
lost  his  self-control,  and  his  eyes  told  all 
that  he  had  not  said.  The  girl  trembled 
violently  as  she  stared  back  at  him.  The 
tale  was  told.  Then  quietly  saying  good- 
night she  went  up-stairs.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  packed. 

Blair  did  not  appear  at  luncheon.  She 
was  in  despair.  Her  face  grew  drawn 
and  pale.  Her  train  was  to  leave  at 
five. 

At  three  she  was  going  up-stairs  to 
finish  her  arrangements,  when  Blair  came 
out  of  his  room. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 
"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his.  "  Beth, — 
there's  no  use  in  our  telling  each  other — 
anything, — we  both  know." 

"We  both  know,"  she  repeated,  with 
stiff  lips. 

"And  you  won't  marry  that  Italian? 
Some  day  you  will  marry  some  one, — I 

202 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

hope, — but    not    him.      You    don't   love 
him." 

"  No.     I  don't  love  him." 

"  Promise  me  you  won't  marry  him  ?" 

"I  promise."  Her  eyes  had  never 
turned  from  his. 

Then  he  released  her  hands.  "  Good- 
bye,— dear." 

"  Good-bye." 

She  had  gone,  and  he  was  alone. 

When  she  reached  home  she  declared 
herself  to  be  "tired  out,"  and  stayed  in 
bed  for  three  days.  She  lay  for  hours 
without  moving,  the  blinds  closed,  in  the 
half-darkness.  Noise  hurt  her,  she  said, 
and  she  could  not  talk. 

During  the  three  days  she  was  su- 
premely unhappy.  For  the  first  time 
she  realized  the  strength  of  her  own  love, 
and  the  "might  have  beens."  A  line 
from  a  song  of  Brahms  haunted  her,  and 
she  repeated  it  over  and  over  to  herself, 
enjoying  the  appropriateness,  even  in  her 
misery : 

"  Ringsum  1st  oder  Strand." 
203 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Oder  Strand  !"  that  was  to  be  her  life. 
She  was  really,  what  only  a  non-relig- 
ious nature  can  be,  hopeless.  Rocca- 
bianca,  whom,  in  spite  of  her  lie  to  Blair, 
she  had  refused,  had  given  her  his  ad- 
dress, and  had  added  that  a  word  would 
bring  him  at  any  time. 

It  is  significant  of  the  realness  of  her 
despair,  that  she  never  for  a  second  con- 
templated sending  for  him.  Revenge 
had  no  charm  for  her. 

Mrs.  Gurney,  who  naturally  did  not 
believe  in  the  "  tired"  theory,  was  at  a  loss. 
Beth  had  always  been  remarkably  strong, 
in  spite  of  her  paleness.  She  had  not 
been  ill  since  she  had  the  measles  at  ten. 

Wayne,  when  consulted,  suggested 
malaria.  When  Beth  came  down-stairs, 
he  continued  to  talk  of  malaria  until  she 
hated  him. 

Then,  thinking  to  divert  her,  he  insisted 
on  her  telling  them  about  her  visit, — 
whom  she  met,  where  they  had  gone,  and 
so  on.  And  tortured  as  she  was,  she  told 
them.  She  mentioned  Blair  with  absolute 
204 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

indifference,  mimicked  his  languid  man- 
ner, repeated  that  he  had  "gone  off," 
and  from  him  passed  on  to  George 
Murray. 

Spring  came  and  early  summer.  Beth 
rode  a  good  deal  and  took  long  walks. 
She  played  tennis,  drank  tea,  in  fact,  made 
herself  in  no  way  noticeable  by  changed 
habits.  Little  by  little  she  grew  better. 
After  all,  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing that  Blair  had  suffered  as  much  as 
she. 

With  a  most  rare  philosophy,  she  told 
herself  that  she  was  young,  and  that 
the  world  held  much  good  for  her.  "  I 
shall  get  over  it,"  she  said;  "people  al- 
ways do." 

At  last  she  was  almost  quite  cured, — 
the  thought  of  Blair's  eyes  alone  haunting 
her.  She  loved  him,  but  it  was  a  poetic 
pain,  and  her  vanity  had  in  no  way  suf- 
fered. 

She  spent  hours  imagining  to  herself 
his  sad  life,  his  sufferings.     She  looked 
at   the   moon,  and  told  herself   that  he 
205 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

too  was   looking  at  it,  and  thinking  of 
her. 

She  at  last  grew  to  love  her  romantic 
unhappiness,  and  to  prize  it  at  its  true 
value. 

Then  one  day  she  chanced  to  find  in  an 
illustrated  paper  a  series  of  kodak  pic- 
tures taken  at  Newport. 

One  of  them  represented  Blair's  coach. 
Beth  flew  down-stairs,  found  her  grand- 
mother's little  old  magnifying-glass,  and, 
coming  back  to  her  room,  examined  the 
picture. 

It  was  a  remarkably  good  one,  and  she 
recognized  not  only  Blair,  but  another 
man  and — Miss  Edison,  the  "Southern 
girl."  And  Blair  was  laughing. 

So  !     That  was  how  he  was  suffering. 

She  crunched  the  picture  into  a  ball 
and  threw  it  down.  Then  she  hastily 
dressed  and  went  out. 

She  met  Bella  Lacy  on  her  way  "down 
street,"  and  joined  her. 

"  Hot,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Bella. 

"I  don't  know.     I'm  never  warm." 
206 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Bella,  who  was  fat,  looked  admiringly 
at  her.  "You're  always  lovely  and 
pale,  Beth,"  she  remarked,  enviously ; 
"and  I  do  get  so  fiery  red." 

As  they  walked,  a  carriage  passed,  and 
Mrs.  Gordon  Blair  bowed  from  it. 

"  Don't  you  think  she's  here  an  awful 
lot,  Beth  ?  They  say  he  isn't  very  nice  to 
her." 

"  Rubbish  !  Do  you  want  some  soda 
water  ?" 

Bella  did.     "  Chawc'late." 

Beth  took  a  seltzer  lemonade. 

As  they  reached  the  telegraph  office, 
Anna  Blair  came  down  the  steps,  putting 
on  her  gloves. 

"Oh,  Beth!"  she  said,  "Gordon  is 
coming.  I've  just  telegraphed  back — " 
Her  face  was  redder  than  usual,  her  eyes 
glassy  with  rushed  tears. 

"How  very  nice,"  Beth  answered. 
"Lovely  day,  isn't  it?" 

Then  she  passed  up  the  steps,  and  sent 
a  telegram. 


207 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  rooms  were  full  when  at  length 
Mrs.  Gurney  and  Beth  arrived. 

It  was  a  cool  night,  and  "  every  one  in 
town"  was  there.  Mrs.  McLean,  the 
lady  with  the  golden  teeth,  was  there, 
somewhat  subdued  by  the  unusual  pres- 
ence of  her  husband,  a  navy  officer,  who 
had  been  for  three  years  in  the  Chinese 
seas ;  Clara  Hill,  who  had  been  Mrs. 
Bryan  Smith  for  nearly  four  months,  sat 
explaining  to  some  one  that  there  were 
" Smiths  and  Smiths" 

Pretty  women  with  diamonds,  pretty 
women  in  cheap  silk  gowns,  pretty  women 
of  all  kinds. 

Ugly,  or  rather  plain,  women  of  all 
kinds. 

The  men,  on  the  whole,  were  physically 
distinctly  inferior  to  the  women. 

An  orchestra  from  Rochester  was  play- 
ing behind  a  screen  of  palms,  and  several 
208 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

pairs  of  younger  people  were  dancing. 
They  danced  uncommonly  well. 

"  Mary  Ann  Gurney  is  coming,"  old 
Mrs.  Carey,  the  hostess's  mother,  said  to 
her  neighbour,  Judge  Wilson,  who  was 
sleepy,  and  meditating  flight  immediately 
after  supper. 

"I  haven't  known  her  to  go  anywhere 
for  twenty  years." 

"  Nor  I."  Mrs.  Carey,  a  clever  old 
woman  without  any  early  education  and 
with  much  later,  winked  at  him  solemnly. 
"  Some  game  of  Beth's,  you  may  be  sure, 
William." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Gurney  came  in,  im- 
pressive and  grim  in  her  well-made  gray 
silk,  leaning  on  Peter  Wayne's  arm.  Be- 
hind them  came  Beth  and  a  strange  man. 

Beth  was  smiling  as  they  entered.  She 
looked  very  beautiful  in  white  satin,  and 
carried  a  bunch  of  pale  green  orchids. 

Mrs.  Gurney  shook  hands  with  Mrs. 
West,  and  then  introduced  the  stranger. 

"  I  want  to  present  Duke  Roccabianca 
to  you,  Susan,"  and  Mrs.  West,  who  had 

J4  209 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

never  been  farther  than  New  York  in  her 
life,  concealed  her  surprise  well. 

"  I  am  delighted,"  she  murmured. 

Roccabianca  bowed  gravely. 

Then  they  passed  on.  Beth  was  tri- 
umphantly happy.  The  effort  had  been 
made,  and  she  felt  the  envy  of  the  others 
in  the  air. 

Besides,  ever  since  he  had  come  that 
morning,  in  prompt  response  to  her  tele- 
gram, she  had  felt  her  spirits  rise  steadily. 
It  was  something  to  be  a  duchess.  And 
then  Roccabianca  was  rich,  and  he  cer- 
tainly loved  her,  or  he  would  never  have 
followed  her  to  America  and  asked  her  to 
marry  him, — her,  Beth  Gurney,  without  a 
penny  !  And  he  was  not  bad-looking  in 
his  way.  His  eyes  were  rather  fine,  and 
he  had  thick,  moss-like,  black  hair  growing 
low  down  on  his  brow  ;  he  was  not  quite 
so  tall  as  she,  but  carried  himself  well, 
and  his  hands  and  feet  were  beautiful. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  noticed 
at  a  Hunt  Ball  that  Gordon  Blair's  legs 
were  very  thin, 

210 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Her  head  well  up,  real  happiness  glow, 
ing  in  her  eyes,  she  introduced  her  fane J 
to  some  of  her  old  friends. 

"  When  is  it  to  be,  Beth  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
McLean,  curiously,  wriggling  her  sharp 
shoulders  back  into  her  gown. 

Beth  laughed.  "I'm  not  quite  sure, 
Miss  Sally, — but  I  fear  very  soon.  Duke 
Roccabianca  has  an  engagement  with  the 
king  for  the  September  hunting  in  Cala- 
bria." 

Mrs.  Carey  coaxed  the  girl  into  a  cor- 
ner and  made  her  sit  down,  while  Rocca- 
bianca was  talking  to  some  one. 

"  Now,  Beth,  tell  me." 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  Was  it  all  arranged  in  Rome  ?  I 
won't  tell." 

"  No.  It  wasn't, — exactly, — I  mean, 
well,  I've  only  been  engaged  since  I  was 
in  Boston." 

"  And  you  never  told !  What  is  his 
name,  dear;  I  didn't  catch  it?" 

"  Vittorio  Federigo  Paolo  Silverio  di 
Roccabianca  di  San  Giuliano  d'Ansaldi- 

211 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Bracca."  She  laughed  as  she  finished. 
"Tremendous,  isn't  it?" 

"  And  where  will  you  live?"  persisted 
the  curious  old  woman. 

"  In  Rome  in  the  winter.  Then  in  the 
summer, — there  are  several  country 
houses,  I  believe, — I  don't  know  exactly 
where." 

Mrs.  Carey  was  delighted.  Like  all 
the  old  people  in  the  town,  she  was  fond 
of  the  girl,  who  had  always  been  cour- 
teous and  gentle,  and  shown  more  con- 
sideration for  her  elders  than  is  usual 
among  the  young  people  of  small  Ameri- 
can towns. 

The  younger  members  of  Deepwater 
society,  Beth' s  own  contemporaries,  were 
less  pleased.  For  various  reasons,  she 
was  not  a  great  favourite  with  the  girls,  and 
the  young  men  were  rather  afraid  of  her. 

The  music  went  on  ;  the  windows  were 
open,  and  it  was  cool  and  pleasant. 
Roccabianca  made  himself  agreeable, 
dancing  a  great  deal,  and  with  the  utter 
impartiality  of  the  man  in  love. 

212 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Beth  sat  demurely  by  her  grandmother 
and  looked  on.  The  Blairs,  she  knew, 
would  be  late. 

A  few  minutes  before  eleven,  she  rose, 
and,  taking  Roccabianca's  arm,  suggested 
to  him  that  they  should  dance  together 
again.  She  had  heard  a  carriage  stop 
below. 

They  danced  once  around  the  room, 
then  again,  and  as  they  reached  the  door 
she  stopped. 

"I  am  tired,  Vittorio,"  she  said,  dis- 
tinctly. 

Blair  and  his  wife  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. Beth  passed  them  without  looking 
at  them,  and  sat  down  again,  Roccabianca 
leaning  over  her  and  talking. 

Her  exultance  knew  no  bounds.  She 
nearly  loved  the  man  for  his  timely  coming 
to  her  rescue,  for  his  graceful,  distin- 
guished manner,  for  his  title.  And  she 
delighted  in  the  thought  of  his  money. 

"  Beth,  I  am  very  happy,"  he  mur- 
mured, proud  of  his  disinterestedness  in 
marrying  for  love. 

213 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  full  of 
love.  "So  am  I,  Caro." 

And  she  was.  "After  all,"  she  had 
told  herself  while  dressing,  "  Vittorio  is 
much  the  cleverer  man,  and  he  can  marry 
me!" 

And  now,  Blair's  presence  in  Deep- 
water,  so  rare  that  this  time  it  seemed  to 
the  girl  almost  providential,  completed 
her  satisfaction. 

Presently  she  rose,  and  taking  Rocca- 
bianca's  arm  again,  led  him  to  where 
Anna  Blair  sat  with  some  other  non- 
dancing  women,  and  introduced  him  to 
her. 

Mrs.  Blair  was  very  cordial  indeed. 
"Isn't  it  sudden,  Beth  ?"  she  asked. 

"You  must  ask  the  duke  that,  Miss 
Anna." 

Roccabianca  asked  Mrs.  Blair  to  dance, 
but  she  refused,  and  Beth,  sitting  down, 
sent  him  to  dance  with  Bella  Lacy.  She 
could  afford  to  be  good-natured,  and,  as 
usual,  had  a  real  delight  in  giving  some 
one  else  a  pleasure. 
214 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Presently  Blair  came  up,  shook  hands 
with  her,  and  asked  her  for  the  next  waltz 
but  one. 

"Gordon,  Beth  is  engaged,"  his  wife 
cried.  "  Isn't  it  wonderful  to  think  how 
time  flies  !  I  was  ten  years  old  when  she 
was  born." 

'•  May  I  offer  you  my  good  wishes  ?" 
he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy." 

"Thanks,"  she  answered.  "I  think  I 
shall.  He  is  very  good." 

When  their  waltz  came,  she  was  still 
sitting  by  his  wife. 

"It  is  Duke  Roccabianca,  I  suppose ?" 
he  said. 

"Yes.  Oh,  Mr.  Blair, — you  were  so 
nice  to  me  in  Boston, — I  want  to  tell  you 
now,  only  I  don't  quite  know  how  to " 

"  Was  I  nice  to  you  ?  I  am  very  glad. 
Where  is  the  music  from  ?  It  is  good." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  that — that  I  do  love  him.  I  suppose 
I  did  all  the  time,  only  I  didn't  know  it. 
Girls  are  such  geese." 

"  Ah  !    You  loved  him  all  the  time." 
215 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Yes.  It  is  hard  to  say,  but  you  were 
so  kind  to  me " 

"  Damn  my  kindness,"  he  interrupted, 
savagely,  under  his  breath. 

Her  heart  leaped  with  a  thrill  of  joy, 
but  she  went  on  bravely.  "  There  is  only 
one  thing  I  am  a-afraid  of, — that  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  act  the  part  of  Duchess." 

He  laughed.  "  I  think  there  is  no 
danger,  Miss  Gurney,  of  your  being  un- 
able to  act  any  part  you  choose.  You 
are  the  best  actress  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  I  ?     How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  were  a  good  enough 
actress  to  fool  me  completely,  and  I  am 
not  a  baby.  I  must  congratulate  you  on 
that  fact,  as  well  as  on  your  matrimo- 
nial achievement." 

For  one  second  she  looked  into  his 
eyes,  her  own  bewilderingly  full  of  a  mix- 
ture of  sentiments,  and  then  she  said, 
simply,  "Thanks.  Will  you  take  me  to 
my  place,  please  ?" 


216 


PART   THREE 


217 


CHAPTER  I 

ON  the  west  terrace  of  Castle  Roc- 
cabianca,  two  ladies  sat  watching 
the  splendour  of  the  setting  sun.  By 
them,  on  a  small  table,  lay  a  small  silver 
tea-service  and  four  or  five  delicate 
cups.  The  wicker-chairs  standing  about 
were  covered  with  light  wraps  and  books. 
The  spot  wore  the  unmistakable  air  of 
being  a  favourite  lounging-place. 

Of  the  two  ladies,  one,  a  frail  little 
brunette  with  great,  green  eyes,  lay  back 
in  her  chair,  one  slight  hand  on  her 
yellow-covered  book,  her  cheek  against  a 
silk  pillow. 

The  other  one,  who  was  several  years 
younger,  held  a  magazine  on  her  knees, 
and  was  slowly  cutting  the  pages  with  a 
long  silver  knife. 

Below  the  terrace,  to  the  right,  some 
young  people  were  playing  tennis,  their 
voices  agreeably  softened  by  distance. 
219 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"A  disgusting  book,"  observed  the 
little  woman  at  last,  removing  her  hand 
and  looking  at  the  page. 

"  Then  why  do  you  read  it  ?" 

They  spoke  in  French. 

"  My  dear  Violetta  !  Why  does  one 
squeeze  in  one's  waist  and  blacken  one's 
eyebrows  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  don't, 
myself." 

"And  I  do,"  answered  Bianca  de 
Bresilly,  mournfully. 

The  Duchess  laughed  shortly.  She 
was  evidently  not  in  a  good  humour. 
"  Here  comes  Piero  again.  That  boy  is 
too  lazy  for  words,"  she  went  on,  as  one 
of  the  tennis-players  came  up  the  steps, 
his  racket  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Poveretto  /  And  you  call  it  laziness, 
parbleu  /" 

The  little  Countess  shut  her  eyes  in  a 
malicious  laugh. 

The  young  man  who  joined  them,  sit- 
ting down  in  a  chair  facing  both,  was  a 
tall,  broad  youth,  with  the  queer  bronze 

220 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

colour  of  the  Sicilian,  and  a  red  mouth 
just  fringed  with  silky  black. 

"  Mariana  and  Tito  are  too  idiotic," 
he  explained.  "  Engaged  lovers  are  dis- 
gusting." 

"And  married  ones  ?"  asked  Bianca. 

"  Worse, — when  they're  married  to 
each  other." 

The  Duchess  frowned. 

"  Don't  try  to  be  clever,  d'Argenti, — it 
is  not  a  success,"  she  said,  coldly. 

"The  humblest  of  your  slaves  obeys. 
I  will  be  serious.  Who  are  coming  to- 
night?" 

"  Arnaldi,  the  Becca's,  and  Cavaleone." 

Argenti  glanced  quickly  at  the  Countess, 
who  had  taken  up  her  book  again. 
"  Cavaleone !  I  wish  he  were  not  coming  ; 
he  is  horribly  dull.  I  wonder  if  he  always 
was,  or  if  it  is  only  the  slow  advance  of 
age?" 

"  I  don't  find  him  dull ;  do  you,  Vio- 
letta?" 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  retorted  the 
young  man,  biting  his  red  lip  in  a  way 

221 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

that  made  his  mouth  crooked, — a  trick  of 
his. 

"  But  we  others  !  I  wonder  why  Vitto- 
rio  asked  him." 

"  I  daresay  because  he  chose  to  do  so, 
d'Argenti." 

The  Countess  rose.  "I  am  going  in, 
Violetta,  I  am  tired.  Arrivederci." 

When  she  was  out  of  hearing,  the 
Duchess  turned  to  d'Argenti. 

"  I  forbid  you  insulting  my  guests, 
Conte,"  she  said  in  Italian.  "You  are 
very  impertinent." 

"What's  he  to  Hecuba?"  he  answered 
in  English.  "  He  is  not  her  husband,  or 
her  brother,  or  her  cousin.  And  I  had 
had  enough  of  her,  besides.  Oh,  yes,  I 
did  it  on  purpose,  of  course.  I  have  not 
seen  you  all  day." 

"You  have  seen  me  repeatedly." 

"  Not  alone,  and  I  wanted  you  alone. 

Violetta "  his  face  glowed  with  a  rush 

of  colour  as  he  spoke  her  name. 

"I  am  Duchessa  di  Roccabianca,"  she 
said,  frowning.  "  Basta  T 

222 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Now  you  are  angry,  and  going  to 
leave  me.  I  am  the  most  unfortunate 
wretch  in  the  world.  Why  do  you  treat 
^rne  this  way?" 

"  I  do  not  like  you.  You  annoy  my 
friends,  and  you  annoy  me.  Now,  good- 
bye, and  remember,  I  will  not  permit  you 
to  be  rude  to  my  guests." 

He  sprang  up  with  clenched  hands. 
"And  I  will  not  permit  you  to  treat  me 
like  a  dog.  Why  should  I  not  speak  of 
Paolo  Cavaleone  as  I  choose  before 
Bianca  de  Bresilly?  What  is  it  to  me 
that  he  is  her  lover  ?  I " 

Without  turning,  she  walked  across  the 
terrace,  her  long  skirts  trailing.  Her 
face  was  white  with  anger  and  discomfort. 
She  could  not,  even  now,  after  years 
spent  in  Roman  society,  hear  things 
called  by  their  primitive  names. 

Facts  she  could  endure, — and  had  in- 
deed become  used  to  many  things  that 
had  unfeignedly  shocked  her  at  first,  but 
her  ears  were  still  sensitive. 

At  dinner  that  night  she  hardly  spoke. 
223 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Her  guests,  old  friends  for  the  greater 
part,  were  used  to  her  attacks  of  calm 
silence,  and  paid  no  heed. 

But  d'Argenti  knew  what  it  meant,  and 
he  sulked  conspicuously  throughout  the 
meal,  to  the  amusement  and  comments 
of  the  others. 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  the  Marchesa  Altieri, 
whose  little  daughter,  just  out  of  her  con- 
vent, sat  on  d'Argenti's  left,  "she  is  very 
cruel  to  him." 

And  Silvia  Altieri  saw,  with  her  down- 
cast eyes,  much  to  amuse  her. 

Up  to  this  evening  her  visit  had  been 
dreadfully  stupid.  The  only  young  man 
who  was  not  engaged  in  an  engrossing 
affair  with  one  of  the  married  women  was 
d'Argenti,  and  he,  she  soon  saw,  was  in 
love  with  the  Duchess.  Then  Paolo  Cava- 
leone,  whom  she  knew  she  had  been 
brought  to  meet,  had  not  come,  and  the 
only  other  girl,  Mariana  Cavaleone,  his 
cousin,  was  engaged. 

The  convent  had  been  much  more  fun. 
There  were,  at  least,  plenty  of  girls,  and 
224 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

then  books  to  be  read  on  the  sly,  and 
bonbons  to  be  crunched  at  night  under 
the  bed-clothes. 

She  glanced  up  the  table  at  her  hostess. 

The  Duchess  was  slightly  less  slender 
than  when  she  married,  and  her  soft 
hair  was  of  a  warmer  tinge.  Otherwise 
she  had  changed  but  little.  Her  mobile 
face  was  capable  of  so  many  expressions 
that  no  one,  probably  even  herself,  knew 
which  was  its  natural  one. 

She  wore  a  queer  gown  of  brick-coloured 
velvet,  and  a  great  rope  of  pearls  was 
twisted  about  her  neck.  Silvia  decided  to 
have  a  rope  of  pearls  when  she  was  mar- 
ried. And  it  surely  wouldn't  be  long 
before  her  mother  succeeded  in  finding  a 
husband  for  her.  She  had  two  millions 
of  francs  for  her  dot. 

Roccabianca  had  grown  fat.  His  was 
the  white  fat  of  Italians.  His  hair  was 
as  thick  as  ever,  and  under  his  eyes  hung 
small  sacks.  Silvia  privately  admired 
him,  finding  his  "  air  of  having  lived,"  very 
attractive.  By  him  sat  a  big,  red-haired 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

woman,  the  wife  of  the  French  Ambassa- 
dor, on  his  left  the  Princess  Asprodente, 
famous  for  her  oaths  and  her  wicked 
stories.  It  was  a  merry  party ;  Rocca- 
bianca  never  invited  bores. 

When  dinner  was  over,  and  the  women 
were  again  in  the  big,  empty  salon  with 
its  splendidly  decorated  ceiling,  things 
were  much  quieter.  The  ladies  talked 
languidly,  and  Silvia  and  Mariana  lis- 
tened. 

Then  the  men  came  in,  and  some  one 
sang.  In  the  middle  of  the  song  the 
door  opened,  and  a  short,  dark  man  with 
a  beard  entered.  With  one  accord  the 
women  turned  and  looked  at  Bianca  de 
Bresilly.  She  was  sitting  on  a  "pouff," 
her  voluminous  pink  skirts  surging 
around  her,  her  delicate  shoulders  and  face 
arising  from  the  mass  of  tender  colour 
like  a  flower.  She  did  not  move,  but  her 
colour  faded  suddenly,  leaving  two  hard 
pink  spots  under  her  eyes. 

"Poor  thing,  I  don't  think  she  ever 
painted  before,"  Silvia's  mother,  full  of 
226 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Christian  charity,  whispered  to  her  neigh- 
bour. 

The  dark  man  shook  hands  with  Roc- 
cabianca,  after  kissing  the  Duchess's 
fingers,  and  then  went  about,  greeting 
and  being  greeted. 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  Silvia  asked  Mariana. 

"  Why,  you  goose,  it's  Paolo  Cavaleone. 
I  should  think  you'd  know  !" 

"  Contessa,  buona  sera  /" 

Bianca  smiled  up  at  him,  and  held  out 
her  frail  little  hand. 

"  Good-evening,  Count."  And  that 
was  all. 

"  I  hope  he'll  have  me,  oh,  I  hope  he'll 
have  me,"  the  little  Altieri  said  to  herself. 
"  Madonna  mia,  make  him  take  me." 


227 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  next  morning  it  rained.  Silvia 
sat  with  folded  hands,  straight  as  an 
arrow,  on  an  uncomfortable  chair  for  two 
hours,  listening  to  the  conversation.  It 
was  very  dull ! 

At  length  some  of  the  women  went 
up-stairs,  and  the  others  scattered  them- 
selves about  the  great  room  in  groups. 

The  Marchesa  Altieri  and  the  wife  of 
the  ambassador  sat  talking  lazily  for 
some  time,  without  heeding  the  girl. 

"Yes,  she  looked  badly,  poor  thing, — 
and  what  wonder,"  said  the  Frenchwoman, 
at  length.  "  I  am  sorry  for  her." 

"  So  am  I !  But  then,  you  know,  he 
has  absolutely  ruined  himself  for  her. 
It  couldn't  possibly  have  lasted  much 
longer.  I  am  very  fond  of  Paolo,  with  all 
his  faults." 

"  So  I  understand.     They  say " 

"  Silvia,  can't  you  walk  about  a  little, 
228 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

dear?"  interrupted  the  careful  mother. 
"  You  must  be  tired." 

The  young  girl  rose.  "  Oh,  yes, 
mamma.  I  will  go  for  a  little  while  to  the 
chapel." 

With  a  curtsey  she  left  the  room,  wrath 
in  her  heart. 

"She  is  so  devote,  dear  child,"  mur- 
mured her  mother,  looking  after  her ; 
"  she  is  quite  devoted  to  the  Madonna. 
You  were  saying ?" 

Silvia  went  up-stairs,  through  a  long 
stone  passage,  and  then  turned  to  the 
left  towards  the  chapel. 

"  I'll  begin  a  '  neuvaine,'  "  she  thought. 
"I  can  finish  it  at  home,  if  nothing  hap- 
pens here." 

This  part  of  the  castle  being,  as  she 
knew,  very  little  used,  she  was  surprised 
at  hearing  voices  to  her  left,  about  half- 
way down  the  passage. 

Instinctively  hushing  her  footsteps  on 

the   polished    old    bricks,    she    went    on 

until  she  came  to  the  half-open  door  of 

the  room  whence  came   the  voices.     It 

229 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

was  the  old  billiard-room,  she  knew,  that 
had  not  been  used  for  years. 

Pausing,  she  waited.  Then  the  speaker 
went  on  in  a  curiously  harsh  voice  that 
she  did  not  recognize,  "  I  know,  I  know 
all  that, — but  oh,  my  God,  it  is  hard  !" 

The  girl  leaned  forward  and  peeped  in 
through  the  crack  of  the  door. 

Bianca  de  Bresilly  stood  in  the  closed 
window,  her  hands  clasped  tight,  and  be- 
fore her,  his  back,  of  course,  to  the  door, 
was  a  man. 

"  It  is  Cavaleone  !" 

The  listener  started  back  and  leaned 
against  the  wall,  in  fear  that  the  door 
might  creak. 

"I  know, — I  know,"  he  was  saying. 
"  And  perhaps  you  may  believe  that  it  is 
at  least  as  hard  for  me  as  for  you.  But 
— it  must  be,  Bianca." 

The  little  woman's  face  was  white,  her 
eyes  almost  wild.  "  It  will  kill  me." 

Silvia  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders 
despairingly. 

"  Dear  child  !  It  will  kill  neither  of  us. 
230 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Such  things  do  not  kill.  They  only  hurt. 
And  if  I  didn't  do  it,  what  on  earth  should 
I  do  ?  Can  love  pay  my  debts  ?" 

"  Another  year, — you  could  have  waited 
another  year,"  she  pleaded. 

"  No,  I  couldn't.  If  it  had  been  pos- 
sible, I  should  have  done  it.  Besides, — 
two  millions  are  not  always  to  be  had." 

"  Paolo, — d'Argenti  said  yesterday  that 
he  thought  her  pretty.  Did  he  only  say 
it  to  torture  me  ?  Do  you  think  her 
pretty?"  She  caught  his  sleeve  eagerly. 

"  Per  Bacco  !  How  can  d'Argenti's 
opinion  torture  you  ?  You  are  so  intense, 
cara  mia.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  her  rather 
pretty." 

"Ah?"  She  leaned  against  the  dusty 
window  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Silvia  hardly  dared  breathe.  It  was 
too  exciting.  She  would  write  every 
word  of  it  to  Luisella. 

Then  Cavaleone  took  the  weeping 
woman  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  slowly. 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  said;  "you  know  I 
love  you,  that  I  have  loved  you  for  years. 
231 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

My  marriage  will  make  no  difference  in 
that.  None  whatever !" 

"  Paolo  !"  With  the  sudden  strength 
of  feeble  women,  she  pushed  him  away. 

"  It  will  make  a  difference,  with  God's 
help  !  I  have  been  a  wicked  woman,  but 
that, — I  am  not  so  base  as  that." 

He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
looked  at  her  resignedly.  "That,  of 
course,  is  for  you  to  decide.  But  you 
must  remember  that  only  a  cruel  neces- 
sity has  parted  us.  My  love  has  not 
changed." 

Yet  even  the  girl  at  the  door  felt  the 
relief  in  his  voice. 

"  Now  you  must  go.  I'll  wait  until 
you  have  been  gone  ten  minutes,"  she 
said,  "  and  then  I'll  go  back  to  my  room. 
Paolo, — good-bye,  and — be  good  to  her. 
Women  have  an  awful  capacity  for 
pain." 

Down  the  dusky  passage    scudded  a 

little  blue  figure  on  noiseless  feet,  and  in 

a   minute    Silvia    Altieri    was    kneeling 

piously   before   the   old    picture   of    the 

232 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Madonna,  before  which  a  wick  burned, 
floating  in  a  glass  of  olive  oil. 

She  was  very  devote,  as  her  mother  had 
said. 

That  day,  after  luncheon,  Paolo  Cava- 
leone  asked  the  Duchess  of  Roccabianca 
if  he  might  have  the  honour  of  a  few 
words  privately  with  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be  in  my 
boudoir  at  three,  if  that  is  convenient  to 
you." 

"A  thousand  thanks." 

The  Duchess  knew  what  was  coming, 
and,  pacing  up  and  down  the  little  room, 
twisting  an  ivory  paper-knife  in  her  strong 
hands,  she  tried  to  decide  what  answer 
she  would  give  him. 

She  was  a  worldly  woman  in  every 
way,  a  woman  who  had  no  principle  to 
speak  of,  and  a  woman  who,  in  arriving 
at  a  desired  end,  found  nearly  every 
means  worthy  of  her  use. 

But  this  was  something  different. 
"  She  is  only  seventeen,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "Poor  little  thing."  Again: 
233 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  And  yet,  if  it  is  not  he,  it  might  easily 
be  some  one  worse.  He  is  not  a  bad 
sort, — and  her  mother  will  be  pleased. 
Besides,  if  I  don't  do  it,  some  one  else 
will." 

Her  face  was  weary  and  pale  as  she 
walked.  At  last  she  sank  down  on  a 
chaise-longue  and,  opening  a  little  drawer 
in  the  table  near  her,  took  out  a  small 
ebony  box.  Shaking  it  without  opening  it, 
she  said  aloud  :  "  Odds,  yes  ;  even,  no." 

Then  she  opened  the  box.  The  dice 
were  thrown  so  that  six  and  three  were 
visible. 

She  laughed  aloud.  "  Vogue  la  galere. 
Yes,  it  is.  Avanti  /" 

Cavaleone  came  in  and,  kissing  her 
hand,  sat  down  near  her.  "  Duchessa," 
he  began,  slowly,  "  I  have  come  to  you, 
as  a  woman  I  greatly  respect,  to  beg  a 
great  favour  of  you." 

She  inclined  her  head  quietly  and 
waited. 

"  I — I  wish  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  the 
Marchesina  Altieri, — and  I  have  the 
234 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

honour  to  ask  you  to  present  my  offer  to 
the  Marchesa." 

The  Duchess  paused  a  second,  and 
then  said  softly,  "I  will  go  with  pleasure, 
Conte." 

"  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  !  And 
— I  wish  to  assure  you,  Duchessa,  that  I — 
in  fact,  that " 

"  That  you  mean  to  be  a  good  boy." 

"Yes.  Elisa  Altieri  knows  me  very 
well, — particularly  my  faults, — and  may  I 

beg  you  to  assure  her "  he  broke  off, 

a  frown  dividing  his  forehead. 

She  understood,  and  rose.  "  If  you 
will  wait  here,  Conte,  I  will  go  at  once." 

"Oh,  the  injustice  of  it,"  she  thought, 
bitterly,  as  she  hurried  down-stairs,  "  that 
she,  poor  Bianca,  is  now  a  fault  to  be 
forgiven  him.  Bah  !" 

The  Marchesa  listened  gravely  to  her 
first  words.  Then  she  said,  "  Dear 
Paolo.  He  is  simpaticone  /" 

"He  also  wished  me  to  tell  you  that — 
that "  she  stopped  short. 

The  Marchesa  laughed.     "  Dear  Vio- 
235 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

letta,  I  understand.  That  the  affair  with 
Biana  is  broken  off?  Of  course,  it  has 
been  a  pity  for  him,  but  men  will  be 
men,  as  we  all  know." 

"  I  think  it  has  been  a  pity  for  her." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  am  very  sorry 
for  her.  Well, — tell  him,  please,  that  I 
am  delighted,  and  that  he  may  come  to 
me.  Dear  boy !" 

The  Duchess,  as  she  went  up-stairs, 
came  on  an  old  cousin  of  her  husband,  a 
student  and  man  of  letters,  of  whom  she 
was  rather  fond. 

"Luigi,"  she  said,  impetuously,  "tell 
me,  am  I  crazy  that  I  am  still  shocked  by 
things  ?" 

"  By  what  things,  my  dear?" 

"Good  Heavens, — you  know.  Every 
woman  in  the  house  has  her  lover, — it  is 
all  rotten,  all  of  it.  You  are  a  good  man. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  curiously. 
"  My  dear  Violetta,  I  am  nearly  seventy- 
five  years  old,  and  I  have  found  that  what 
I  think  matters  not  one  bit.  That  what 
236 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

is  to  be  is  to  be, — learn  this.  Live  and 
let  live.  Say  your  prayers,  and  let  things 
take  their  course." 

"  And  if  I,  your  nephew's  wife,  was  as 
these  women  ?"  she  went  on,  passion- 
ately. 

"Then  I  should  say,  don't  let  any  one 
find  you  out." 

She  stared  at  him  for  a  second,  and 
then  burst  out  laughing.  "  You  are 
right.  I  am  a  fool, — or  rather,  my  nerves 
are  out  of  order.  The  joke  of  it  is,  Gigi 
mio,  that  I'm  the  only  one  of  these 
women  who  has  no  religion." 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  met 
d'Argenti. 

"I  am  going  to-night,"  he  said,  ab- 
ruptly. 

"Why?" 

"  Because, — I  can't  stand  it  any  longer. 
I  love  you,  and  you  are  killing  me." 

A  rush  of  colour  came  to  her  face,  and, 
leaning  forward,  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"  Piero, —  do  not  go,"  she  said,  gently. 
237 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Then,  with  easy  swiftness,  she  had  left 
him. 

That  evening  at  dinner  she  was  gayer 
than  she  had  been  for  weeks. 

D'Argenti  watched  her  in  wonder. 
Her  face  was  full  of  colour  and  sparkle, 
and  her  eyes,  meeting  his  from  time  to 
time,  were  full  of  happiness.  And  the 
woman  was  happy. 

"In  Rome  do  as  the  Romans  do,"  she 
said  over  and  over  to  herself. 

And  d'Argenti,  a  year  younger  than 
herself,  had  a  certain  charm  for  her. 
There  was  something  in  the  poise  of  his 
head  that  reminded  her  strongly  of  Gor- 
don Blair, — and  Gordon  Blair,  through 
all  her  vicissitudes,  she  still  remembered 
with  a  sort  of  sad  tenderness. 

She  was  a  woman  who  needed  a 
chagrin  to  make  her  happy. 

Then  she  was  not  afraid  of  Piero 
d'Argenti  or  of  herself.  Her  self-knowl- 
edge had  grown  with  her  years. 

So  she  smiled  and  talked,  filled  with 


238 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

a  mocking  amusement  of  her  own  mood 
that  day,  and  was  brilliantly  happy. 

The  dinner  was  nearly  over  when  a 
servant  brought  her  something  on  a  silver 
salver. 

Suddenly,  while  d'Argenti's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her,  she  rose. 

"Vittorio,"  she  cried,  harshly,  "Grand- 
mother is  dying, — I  must  go  home." 


239 


CHAPTER   III 

WAYNE  sat  by  the  bed,  his  hand  on 
hers  as  it  lay  inert  on  the  silk  cov- 
erlet. It  was  evening,  and  the  sunlight, 
softened  by  the  vines  at  the  window,  fell 
in  on  the  bed,  on  her  still  old  face  and 
on  his  head. 

His  face  was  in  the  shadow  of  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat.  Just  within  the 
door  leading  into  the  next  room  sat  a 
strange  woman"  in  a  white  apron  and 
gray  gown, — the  nurse. 

No  one  had  stirred  or  spoken  for  over 
an  hour,  when  the  sick  woman  said, 
faintly,  "Peter?" 

"  Mary  Anne  ?"  He  leaned  out  of  the 
shadow  towards  her. 

"Has  she  come?" 

"Not  yet.     The  train  will  be  due  in 
ten  minutes.      Do   you   want  anything  ? 
Shall  the  nurse  move  you  a  little  ?" 
240 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  No,"  she  answered,  shortly  ;  "  I  don't 
like  the  nurse.  She  bites  her  nails." 

Then  there  was  another  silence.  The 
shadows  deepened,  the  sun  had  gone; 
the  nurse  rose  and  closed  the  window. 
"  When  she  comes,  wake  me  up,  Peter, 
if  I'm  asleep." 

"  Of  course,  Mary  Anne." 

After  awhile  he  said,  "The  train  has 
come.  Shall  I  not  read  you  a  little  from 
the  Bible  ?" 

"  If  you  want  to.  It  is  a  good 
book."  ' 

Wayne  sighed.  "  Mary  Anne, — I  have 
been  thinking, — wouldn't  you  like  to  see 
Mr.  Lane?" 

Her  hand  moved  impatiently  under  his. 
"  Of  course,  I  shouldn't.  Don't  you  dare 
bring  him  to  see  me,  Peter  Wayne." 

"  Of  course  not,  if  you  don't  want  to 
see  him,  dear.  I  only  thought " 

"You  only  thought  that,  now  I'm  lying 
here  helpless,  he  might  get  the  better  of 
me.  I  don't  want  him,  I  tell  you." 

"Very  well.       Hark.'"     He  rose  and 

1 6  241 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

went  to  the  window.  "It  is  she,  Mary 
Anne.  Beth." 

The  sick  woman  said  nothing,  and  in 
two  minutes  Beth  was  in  the  room,  kneel- 
ing by  the  bed.  "  Oh,  my  darling  old 
Granny,  my  darling  old  Granny." 

Wayne's  great  mouth  worked.  From 
the  old  woman's  hard  eyes  stole  two 
tears. 

"Beth,  my  little  girl,"  she  muttered, 
with  difficulty.  The  nurse  lighted  the 
lamp,  and  Beth,  rising,  bit  her  lips  to 
keep  from  laughing  at  the  grotesque 
shadow  of  Wayne's  profile  on  the  ceil- 
ing. 

"Sit  down.  I  want  to  see  you,"  her 
grandmother  said,  and  the  young  woman 
obeyed,  taking  off  her  small  travelling 
hat  and  unfastening  her  jacket. 

Mrs.  Gurney's  eyes  travelled  slowly 
over  her,  and  then  with  a  laugh,  "  You've 
dyed  your  hair." 

"  Granny,  Granny  !  Don't  you  like  it  ? 
It  was  turning  so  dark,  and  made  me  look 
like  a  washed-out  Italian  instead  of  a 
242 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

dark  American.     And  to  think  that  you 
have  discovered  it  at  once." 

"  What  did  your  husband  say  ?" 

"He  never  noticed  it."  She  rose.  "  I 
will  go  to  my  room  and  change  my  dress. 
I  am  tired,  as  you  can  imagine." 

When  she  was  in  her  room  she  locked 
the  door  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
Laughing  at  herself,  she  felt  the  Duchess 
slip  away,  leaving  the  old  Beth  Gurney 
in  her  place. 

"  And  now  I  will  play  sick-nurse  and 
charm  everyone,"  she  said,  aloud.  "Oh, 
Beth,  Beth  !"  Then  quickly,  deftly,  she 
went  to  work,  without  calling  her  maid, 
who  would  be  a  jarring  note  in  the  new 
scene.  She  put  on  a  house-dress,  and 
then,  with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure,  found 
on  the  closet-shelf  a  pair  of  shabby  old 
red  shoes,  one  of  her  pet  vanities  in  the 
old  days.  She  put  them  on,  and  went 
back  to  the  sick-room. 

"Are  you  hungry,  Beth?" 

It  was  Wayne  who  spoke. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter." 
243 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Then  let  us  go  down-stairs,  dear. 
She  is  asleep.  She  sleeps  a  great 
deal." 

Beth  followed  him,  and  in  the  hall  took 
his  arm. 

"Isn't  that  a  good  sign, — that  she 
sleeps?" 

"Weakness,  dear." 

She  kissed  him  again,  and  wondered 
how  she  could  have  learned  never  to 
think  of  him  all  these  years.  After  all, 
home  was  best,  and  under  her  acquired 
Italian-ness,  of  which  she  had  been  so 
proud,  she  was  still  an  American. 

They  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  a 
strange  maid  brought  in  supper. 

"  I  ordered  it,"  said  the  old  man,  wist- 
fully; "  I  hope  you  still  like  the  old  things  ?" 

Her  eyes  rilled  with  tears  as  she  recog- 
nized the  fried  chicken,  the  little  soda- 
biscuits,  like  tiny  accordions  with  their 
fluted  sides,  the  tin  coffee-pot, — Mrs. 
Gurney  always  had  her  coffee  made  in  a 
tin  pot.  Then  there  was  strawberry  jam. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  cried,  with  a 
244 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

break  in  her  voice,  "you  have  remembered 
everything!" 

"  We  have  never  forgotten,  Beth.  Old 
people  remember." 

"  And  I,  too,  have  never  forgotten, 
though  I  have  never  come,"  she  cried,  full 
of  a  remorse  that  hurt  her. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  tranquilly. 
"We  never  blamed  you.  How  is  your 
husband,  dear?" 

She  frowned  impatiently.  She  hated 
thinking  of  anything  but  the  peace  of 
the  old  house,  the  return  of  the  old  life. 
"  He  is  well.  He — wished  to  be  remem- 
bered to  you." 

She  was  hungry,  and  the  plain,  homely 
fare  was  delicious.  The  coffee,  brown 
and  clear,  so  different  from  the  black 
European  coffee,  was  as  nectar  to  her. 
Wayne  watched  her  with  a  gentle  pleasure 
under  his  sadness. 

"It  was  sudden,"  he  said,  presently. 
"  She  was  in  the  garden  tying  up  a  honey- 
suckle when  it  came.    She  just  fell.    She 
has  little  pain,  thank  God." 
245 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Paralysis  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  now  it  is  her  heart.  The 
doctor  says  she  will  not  suffer." 

Beth  in  her  content  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  reason  for  her  visit.  Now 
she  started.  "  Uncle  Peter,  she  must 
not  die.  She  must  not !" 

His  prominent  eyes  filled,  and  he  took 
out  his  white  silk  handkerchief.  "  Dear 
child,  One  who  knows  says  she  must  go." 

The  young  woman  rose,  her  face  white. 
"  It  is  cruel,  unjust, — she  doesn't  want  to 
die, — and  I  need  her.  Oh,  Uncle  Peter, 
I  need  my  grandmother." 

Her  heart  was  full  of  hot  love  and  re- 
bellion. The  old  childish  love,  reinforced 
by  the  woman's  need.  "  I  have  no  one 
but  her." 

"  You  have  your  husband,  Beth,  and 
me,  and — God  forgive  me  for  saying  it 
last, — God  Himself." 

She  frowned  impatiently.  She  as  little 
wanted  the  one  as  the  other. 

Then,  how  could  God  separate  Wayne 
from  his  only  friend  ? 
246 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

They  went  up-stairs  in  silence.  In  her 
thoughts,  Beth  often  thought  of  God,  and 
she  was  by  no  means  one  of  those  who 
declare  their  atheism. 

It  was  that  she  lacked  the  faculty  of 
belief,  not  that  she  cultivated,  so  to  say, 
the  Religion  of  Unbelief. 

They  sat  down  in  the  quiet  sick-room, 
and  for  two  hours  no  one  spoke. 

At  length  the  nurse  whispered  that 
they  had  better  go.  "  She  is  asleep,  and 
If  she  awakes  and  finds  you  here,  it  may 
excite  her." 

So  they  left  the  room,  and  separated 
on  the  landing. 

"I'm  staying  here,  you  know,"  Wayne 
told  her ;  "  I  will  call  you  if  anything  hap- 
pens. Good-night." 

She  was  asleep,  hours  later,  when  some 
one  knocked  at  the  door.  "  Beth, — she 
wants  you." 

Beth  grew  ice-cold,  and   trembled  so 
that  she  could  not  move.     Had  it  come, 
then,  this  thing  that  she  had  dreaded  all 
her  life,  and  until  now  avoided  ? 
247 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"Is  she  w-worse?"  she  managed  to 
ask. 

"  No.  Only  she  can't  sleep,  and  she 
wants  you." 

A  few  minutes  later,  she  went  down 
the  dark  hall,  a  candle  in  her  hand.  She 
was  afraid  of  the  dark,  and  hurried,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  light  coming  from  the 
door  of  the  sick-room. 

"  Peter  thought  you  might  be  afraid  of 
the  dark,"  her  grandmother  said,  as  she 
entered,  "but  you  never  were  a  coward, 
with  all  your  faults." 

And  the  young  woman  felt  a  quiver  of 
satisfaction  at  the  words. 

"  You  wanted  me,  Granny  dear  ?"  she 
said,  blowing  out  her  candle. 

"Yes,  Beth;  long  ago  you  wrote  me 
of  your  jewels.  Have  you  them  with 
you '" 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  put  them  in  the 
bank  to-morrow.  Adelina  brought  them 
by  mistake." 

"  I  want  to  see  them,"  went  on  the  old 
woman. 

248 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"To  see  them  now?" 

"  Yes, — why  not,  Beth,  if  she  wants  to?" 

Wayne  had  no  collar  on,  and  his  old 
neck  looked  pitifully  thin  and  cold. 

"  Of  course,  Granny.  I'll  bring  them 
at  once.  You  will  enjoy  seeing  them, 
I'm  sure." 

She  went  back  to  her  room  and  opened 
the  box,  which  was  under  her  bed.  Sud- 
denly a  thought  struck  her,  and  taking 
from  her  trunk  a  low  black  velvet  bodice, 
she  put  it  on. 

In  three  minutes  she  was  dressed,  down 
to  the  waist,  below  which  shimmered  a 
filmy  white  silk  petticoat.  Then,  on  her 
ruffled  hair,  she  put  the  great  crown  of 
diamonds,  and  in  her  ears  the  studs. 
Laughing,  pleased  with  the  picture  in  the 
glass,  she  fastened  the  necklace,  and 
then,  taking  the  jewel  box  under  her  arm, 
ran  down  the  hall. 

"  Oh !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gurney. 
".Splendid !" 

Beth  bent  and  let  her  grandmother 
look  closely  at  the  wonderful  stones,  then 
249 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

she  took  them  off  and  laid  them  on  the 
bed,  while  she  arrayed  herself  in  a  glory 
of  sapphires. 

Lastly  came  the  pearls.  The  old 
woman's  eyes  glowed  under  her  thick 
brows.  "That  was  what  you  always 
needed,  Beth,  to  be  beautiful,"  she  said. 
"  And  you  are  beautiful." 

Then  while  Beth  took  off  the  pearls 
her  grandmother  fell  asleep. 


250 


CHAPTER   IV 

TWO  or  three  days  later,  Beth  was 
sitting    alone    in    the    sitting-room, 
when  Wayne  came  in. 

"  Have  they  gone  ?"  he  asked,  falling 
wearily  into  a  chair. 

"Yes.  They  were  very  kind.  I  had 
not  known  that  old  Mrs.  Carey  was  dead." 

"  Cancer.  We  have  much  to  be  thank- 
ful for,  Beth." 

"  In  that  poor  old  Mrs.  Carey  died  of 
cancer?  Oh,  shame  on  you,  Uncle 
Peter !" 

He  smiled.  "You  know  what  I  mean. 
Is  she  asleep  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  nurse  says  her  strength  is 
wonderful.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  here  to 
help  a  little.  I  have  been  very  selfish," 
she  added,  with  a  sudden  impulse. 

He  shook  his  head.     "  You  are  young, 
dear.     Beth, — I  want  you   to  do  some- 
thing for  me.     Will  you  ?" 
251 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  I  can.  What  is 
it?" 

The  old  man  paused,  rose,  and  reached 
down  the  white  rose-jar. 

"  She  filled  it  herself,  only  in  June,"  he 
muttered,  absently.  "And  only  for  me  ! 
She  never  opened  it  herself,  I  know  she 
didn't.  My  grandmother  gave  it  to  me. 
I  loved  it  when  I  was  a  tiny  little  chap. 
Then  I  gave  it  to  her,  and  she  always 
kept  it  full  for  me." 

Beth  watched  him  pitifully,  yet  bitterly 
uncomfortable.  Her  old  frantic  hatred  of 
"scenes"  had  grown  stronger  with  the 
years. 

"You  were  going  to  ask  me  to  do 
something  for  you,"  she  said,  at  last 

He  looked  up.  "  Oh,  yes.  I  am  grow- 
ing very  forgetful.  Beth,  you  know 
about  your  grandmother's  unhappy  re- 
ligious views?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter." 

"  Did  she  ever  talk  to  you  of  them  ?" 

"  No,  never." 

"  Well,  I  must  tell  you  how  it  was. 
252 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

You  mustn't  blame  her.  It  was  inherited, 
I  really  believe.  Her  father  was  a  bril- 
liant man, — a  man  who  travelled  and 
knew  the  thinking  men  of  his  time.  Un- 
happily, the  thinking  men  of  that  time 
were  very  frequently  atheists.  Mr.  Rus- 
sell lost  his  belief.  Your  grandmother 
— I  mean  your  great-grandmother — was  a 
good  woman,  and  a  religious  one.  She 
brought  up  yo.ur  grandmother  to  believe, 
but  the  child  knew  that  her  father,  whom 
she  adored,  believed  nothing,  and — she 
copied  him.  I  remember  the  scene  there 
was  when  she  refused  to  be  confirmed. 
It  ended  in  her  father  taking  her  side, 
and  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
Then  she  married."  He  paused,  his  head 
sunk  on  his  breast.  "  She  was  married 
here,  in  this  room.  It  was  the  parlour 
then,  before  the  wing  was  built.  She  wore 
curls  on  her  temples,  and  they  bobbed 
when  she  talked.  When  George  was 
born,  she  began  to  bring  him  up  in  her 
own  way.  William  didn't  care.  He  was 
quite  indifferent  to  such  things.  And 
253 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Mary  Anne  brought  up  her  boy.  She 
taught  him  that  he  must  be  good  ;  she  had 
his  father  whip  him  when  he  was  naughty. 
She  taught  him  that  lying  was  hideous, 
that  truth  was  beautiful.  But  she  gave 
him  no  reasons.  She  had,  of  course, 
none  to  give.  Take  away  the  idea  of 
God,  who  is  Goodness,  and  there  is  no 
reason  for  anything  in  the  world." 

Beth  watched  him  without  speaking. 

"  He  was  a  nice  boy,  George,  agree- 
able and  handsome.  When  his  father 
died  he  was  only  ten.  Then,  of  course, 
the  whippings  ceased,  and  that  was  bad 
for  him.  I  once  told  him  that  he  must  be 
good.  He  shook  back  his  hair  and 
looked  at  me.  '  Why  ?'  he  asked.  I  had 
nothing  to  say  to  him  in  answer. 

"  George  lied.  He  always  lied.  I  can't 
imagine  where  he  got  it  from,  but  he  did 
it,  and  it  nearly  killed  Mary  Anne.  I 
saw  it,  and  tried  even  then  to  have  her 
tell  him  the  truth.  But  she  couldn't. 

"  '  I  can't  lie  to  him,  can  I  ?'   she  used 
to  say.     Then  at  length,  when  he  was  a 
254 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

big  boy  of  fifteen,  she  consented  to  let 
me  try.  It  was  too  late.  He  only 
laughed.  He  could  not  believe  any  more 
than  his  mother.  So  things  went  on 
from  bad  to  worse." 

He  paused,  took  a  deep  sniff  at  the 
rose-jar,  and  then,  looking  vaguely  around 
the  room,  went  on. 

Beth  lay  still  in  her  chair.  She  had 
never  known  the  story  of  her  father. 
That  he  had  killed  himself,  she  had  learned 
by  accident  when  a  little  thing  of  ten,  but 
she  had  never  told  of  her  discovery,  and 
had  never  asked  her  grandmother  one 
question  about  her  parents. 

"He. was  expelled  from  Yale.  Then 
he  took  to  drinking.  At  last  he  stopped 
drinking,  and  settled  down,  working  in 
the  bank.  For  some  time  he  went  on 
very  well, — in  big  things.  Then  he  mar- 
ried. He  never  told  his  mother  of  his 
engagement,  but  one  day  just  came  in 
with  a  girl  on  his  arm  and  said,  '  Mother, 
here's  my  wife.'  She  was  a  pretty  little 
thing, — a  dressmaker  from  Clarkton. 
255 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Mary  Anne  was  good  to  her,  took  her  in 
the  house,  and  did  everything  for  her.  She 
was  a  good  enough  woman,  but,  of  course, 
uneducated,  and  as  weak  as  water.  George 
was  fond  of  her,  but,  having  once  got  her, 
he  began  drinking  again.  At  last, — he 
forged  my  name  for  two  thousand  dollars." 

Beth's  eyes  closed  slowly,  but  she  did 
not  move. 

"  That  was  a  terrible  time.  The  cash- 
ier had  his  doubts  and  brought  the  cheque 
to  me.  I  said  to  pay  the  money, — that 
it  was  all  right.  The  man  went  away, 
and  I  locked  my  door  and  prayed.  I 
prayed  all  night. 

"  Early  in  the  morning  he  came.  He 
gave  me  back  the  money  and  begged  my 
pardon.  Then  he  went  away.  At  ten 
o'clock  Hank  came  over  and  told  me 
what  had  happened.  George  had  hanged 
himself.  Now  all  my  life  since  then  I  have 
been  praying  that  she  may  realize  his  re- 
pentance. He  did  repent,  or  why  did  he 
come  to  me  ?  Why  did  he  come,  I  say  ?" 

His  voice  rose,  and  he  stood  up,  a 
256 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

shaking  hand  held  out.  "  God  can  for- 
give. I  know  He  has  forgiven  that  poor 
boy.  I  know  it." 

"  Hush,  Uncle  Peter  !"  She  pressed 
him  back  into  his  chair  and  knelt  by  him. 

"  Beth, — I — forgot  that  you  were  there, 
dear.  What  have  I  told  you  ?" 

"  Only  what  I  ought  to  have  known 
long  ago.  Hush, — I  am  quite  calm,  you 
see  ;"  she  was  very  white,  but  her  voice 
was  steady. 

"  You  wanted  to  ask  me  to  do  some- 
thing for  you,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  went  on, 
gently  ;  "  what  was  it  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  try.  Try  to  make  her 
believe.  She  is  dying.  Mary  Anne  is 
dying,  and  she  does  not  believe." 

A  feeling  of  physical  sickness  came 
over  the  young  woman, — her  old  horror 
of  talking  of  "  such  things." 

"  You  must  make  her  see,  Beth.  You 
are  his  own  child.  She  will  listen  to  you." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  she 
rose.    Then  she  said  quietly,  "  Very  well, 
Uncle  Peter ;  I  will  try." 
'7  257 


CHAPTER   V 

THAT  evening,  when  Beth  had  gone 
to  her  room,  she  dismissed  her  maid, 
and,  sitting  down  by  the  lamp,  opened  a 
book  she  had  brought  up  from  the  library. 
The  book  was  dusty,  and  before  begin- 
ning to  read  she  wiped  it  carefully,  that 
it  might  not  soil  her  white  dressing-gown. 

She  read  two  hours  without  stopping, 
except  to  make  certain  notes  on  a  sheet 
of  paper  on  the  table.  The  book  inter- 
ested her.  It  was  the  Bible. 

True  to  her  promise  to  Wayne,  she  was 
preparing  her  attack  on  her  grandmother's 
atheism,  and,  knowing  but  little  of  the 
Book,  she  studied  it  with  care.  A  queer 
smile  disturbed  from  time  to  time  the 
full  curves  of  her  lips, — a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment, tempered  with  disdain. 

"  Here  I  am  posing  again,"  she  said 
aloud,  as  she  at  last  rose  and  closed  the 
book. 

258 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Of  all  the  queer  incidents  in  my  life, 
I  think  this  about  the  most  bizarre.  That 
/should  attempt  to  convert  any  one." 

She  went  to  sleep,  thinking  with 
dreamy  admiration  of  the  beauty  of  the 
Psalms. 

"  Like  every  one  else,"  she  told  herself, 
"he  excused  himself  too  much, — 'my 
enemies  without  cause,' — '  the  wicked  who 
are  purposed  to  overthrow  my  goings  ;' 
but  he  was  a  great  poet." 

The  next  day  it  rained,  a  soft,  incessant 
rain,  which  was  very  welcome  to  her. 
No  one  would  come  to-day,  surely,  and 
she  was  much  interested  in  her  schemes 
for  the  afternoon. 

"  My  worst  enemy  can't  say  that  I'm 
lukewarm,"  she  thought,  laughing  at  her 
own  enthusiasm. 

At  length  the  time  came.  The  early 
dusk  was  pressing  in  at  the  windows,  the 
silence  was  unbroken.  Beth  sat  in  the 
chair  by  the  bed,  and  Wayne  was  in  his 
own  room. 

"  Granny,  shall  I  not  read  to  you  ?" 
259 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Mrs.  Gurney's  voice  was  very  weak,  as 
she  answered,  "  Oh,  yes  ;  if  you  want 
to.  There  is  a  magazine  somewhere  in 
the  room." 

Then  suddenly  Beth' s  old  intense  em- 
barrassment came  back,  flooding  her  with 
heat.  She  rose  to  get  the  magazine, 
shivering  with  discomfort,  when  the 
thought  of  Wayne  strengthened  her. 

"  I  thought, — something  from  the  Bible, 
perhaps  ?" 

"  The  Bible  ?  Very  well ;  I've  no  objec- 
tion, if  you  prefer  it." 

The  old  woman's  voice  was  stronger, 
and  she  moved  her  head  a  little  that  she 
might  look  at  her  granddaughter. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  it  yourself?" 

"Yes,  Granny.  I  like  the  Psalms 
best." 

She  opened  the  Bible  and,  with  a  hasty 
glance  at  her  memorandum,  began  to  read 
the  twenty-third  Psalm. 

Her  beautiful  voice  glorified  the  splen- 
did words,  and  as  she  read  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  of  artistic  pleasure. 
.  260 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

When  she  had  finished,  she  went  on 
with  a  hardly  perceptible  pause  with  the 
forty-second. 

"  It  is  beautiful,  Beth." 

"Yes,  Granny." 

"  Read  it  again." 

The  young  woman  obeyed  :  "  As  the 
hart  panteth " 

When  she  had  finished,  Mrs.   Gurney 

said,  "In  my  Father's  house "    Then 

hearing  the  pages  turned  in  a  helpless 
effort  to  find  the  place,  she  added  : 
"  Fourteenth  John." 

Beth  had  not  read  the  beautiful  chap- 
ter for  many  years.  As  she  went  on  she 
remembered  her  Sunday-school  class,  the 
girls  she  had  sat  beside, — her  teacher, 
the  light  on  the  wall  from  the  stained 
window. 

At  length  she  stopped.  "  Granny,"  she 
said,  "  you  have  never  talked  to  me  about 
your — religious  belief." 

"  Because  I  have  none." 

Beth  stopped,  arrested  by  the  sharpness 
in  her  voice. 

261 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"You  must  have  known  it  for  years," 
went  on  Mrs.  Gurney  ;  "  you  were  far  too 
sharp  not  to  understand  it." 

After  a  minute  she  added  with  a  feeble 
laugh,  "  Poor  Peter,  it  has  been  a  great 
cross  to  him, — and  he  to  me  !  How  he 
has  tormented  me." 

She  paused,  and  then  after  a  little  time 
went  on.  "  I'm  fond  of  the  Bible.  It  is 
a  wonderful  book,  and  Christianity  is  a 
beautiful  fable, — though  the  descriptions 
of  heaven  are  absurd, — with  the  red 
horses,  and  the  beasts  with  harps,  and 
golden  vials  of  odours." 

Beth  was  annoyed.  She  had  under- 
taken this  task  for  Wayne,  and  now  for 
her  own  sake  resented  being  beaten. 

"Granny,"  she  said,  "I  have  an  idea 
that  you  believe  more  than  you  ad- 
mit." 

She  was  startled  at  the  effect  of  her 
words.  Mrs.  Gurney  moved  suddenly, 
and  tried  to  sit  up,  clutching  at  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"  How  dare  you,  Beth  Gurney  !" 
262 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Dear  Granny,  it  would  make  us  so 
happy,"  pleaded  the  young  woman. 

"  Be  still !"  shouted  Mrs.  Gurney,  with 
a  sudden  access  of  strength.  "  It  is  Peter 
who  has  put  you  up  to  this.  Leave  the 
room  at  once.  Nurse  !" 

The  nurse  came  in,  and  the  old  woman 
caught  her  arm  eagerly  :  "  Make  her  go, 
— I  won't  hear  her.  I  won't  be  tormented 
because  I'm  helpless.  Turn  me  over, 
nurse." 

The  nurse  turned  her  over,  and  she 
lay  perfectly  mute  without  stirring. 

"What  was  it,  ma'am?"  The  nurse 
had  beckoned  Beth  into  the  next  room. 
"  You  mustn't  irritate  her." 

The  Duchess  of  Roccabianca  stared 
for  a  few  seconds  at  the  woman,  and  the 
woman's  face  changed  ludicrously.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  ma'am." 

Beth  went  down  the  hall  and  knocked 
at  Wayne's  door.  He  was  kneeling  by 
his  bed,  his  grotesque  face  shining  with 
something  she  had  never  seen. 

"Well?"  he  said,  without  rising. 
263 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  sorry, 
Uncle  Peter.  I  did  my  best,  but  it  only 
made  her  angry." 

He  did  not  speak,  and  she  left  the  room 
at  once. 


264 


CHAPTER   VI 

ALL  that  night  the  old  woman  slept 
quietly  without  waking.  The  next 
morning,  when  Beth  went  in,  she  was 
shocked  at  the  change  in  her  grandmother, 
and  for  the  first  time  for  days  she  again 
realized  poignantly  that  death  was  inevi- 
tably coming. 

"How  are  you,  dear?"  she  asked, 
gently. 

Mrs.  Gurney  opened  her  eyes.  "  Beth, 
— promise  me  you  won't  let  him  come  in. 
He'd  torment  me,  and — I  am  so  weak." 

"  He  would  not  torment  you,  Granny." 

"Yes,  he  would,  I  tell  you.  And  I 
won't  be  tormented.  Promise  me  that  he 
shan't  come." 

"I  promise,  dear.  He  shan't  come. 
But  he  will  feel  very  badly  about  it." 

"  I  know.  Poor  Peter.  But  I  am  too 
weak  to  be  tormented." 

Her  resentment  against  her  grand- 
265 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

daughter  had  gone  without  leaving  a 
trace  of  itself.  "  She  realizes  that  I  was 
only  posing,"  the  young  woman  told  her- 
self. 

Very  gently  she  told  Wayne.  He  said 
nothing,  but  his  face  was  full  of  bitter 
sorrow.  After  a  while  he  said  slowly, 
"  She  would  never  have  turned  against 
me  if  she  had  not  been  ill." 

"  Of  course  not, — and  I  am  sure  in  a 
little  while  she  will  send  for  you,  Uncle 
Peter.  How  could  she  do  without 
you  ?" 

The  doctor,  when  he  came,  told  them 
that  the  end  was  near.  "  It  has  gone 
very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  there  was  no  hope 
from  the  beginning,  and  she  has  had  very 
little  pain." 

"When?"  asked  Beth,  with  stiff  lips. 

"It  is  a  question  of  hours."  Then  he 
went  away,  and  told  the  first  person  he 
met  that  people  were  wrong  in  saying  that 
Beth  Gurney  had  no  heart. 

Beth  went  up-stairs,  and  throwing  her- 
self on  the  bed  cried  bitterly.  "  Oh,  my 
266 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

poor  old  granny.  You  must  die,  and  you 
don't  want  to.  It  is  cruel,  terrible  !  And 
I  have  only  you, — only  you." 

Her  heart  ached  with  remorse  and  the 
frantic  grief  of  a  child  who  cannot  under- 
stand. At  length  she  crept  into  the  sick- 
room and,  kneeling  by  the  bed,  laid  her 
cheek  on  the  wrinkled  old  hand. 
"  Granny,  can  you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  can,  child ;  I  was  never 
deaf." 

"  Granny,  you  were  always  so  good  to 
me.  You  took  care  of  me  and  loved  me 
always." 

She  felt  the  stiff  fingers  try  to  move 
under  her  face. 

"Will  you  forgive  me  for  being  selfish 
and  horrid  ?  That  I  didn't  come  to  see 
you  after  I  was  married  ?" 

"  My  dear,  of  course.  I  might  have 
been  better  to  you,  perhaps,  but  I  was 
good  according  to  my  power.  And  you 
were  the  same.  No  two  people  are 
alike." 

"Granny,  do  you  still  love  me?" 
267 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Yes,  dear.  Now  I  must  rest,  I  am 
tired." 

In  the  silence  Wayne  crept  to  the  door 
and  stood  there  humbly.  At  length  Beth 
rose  and  led  him  away. 

After  luncheon,  the  nurse,  coming 
down-stairs,  met  him.  "  You  might  as 
well  go  in,  Mr.  Wayne.  She  won't  know 
you're  there." 

Faithful  and  patient,  the  old  man  sat 
by  her  all  the  afternoon.  When  the  lights 
were  lit  she  stirred  uneasily,  and  said, 
"Peter!" 

"Yes,  Mary  Anne.     I  am  here." 

Then  her  eyes  closed  again.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  the  silence  of  waiting. 

Nine  o'clock  striking  startled  the 
watchers.  It  began  to  rain,  and  the 
hissing  of  the  water  on  the  leaves  was 
soothing  to  Beth' s  tired  nerves.  Lean- 
ing back,  she  closed  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  hear  the  clock  strike  again. 

Then  suddenly  the  dying  woman  cried, 
"The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  'There 
is  no  God.'  Peter  Wayne?  pray  for  me." 
268 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

With  a  great,  terrible  sob,  Wayne 
slipped  to  his  knees,  and  began. 

When  he  paused,  she  took  up  his 
words,  and,  to  his  amazement,  repeated 
the  whole  of  the  sixth  Psalm  without 
faltering.  Then  she  said,  "  '  All  things 
whatsoever  ye  shall  ask  in  prayer,  be- 
lieving, ye  shall  receive/  I  believe, 
Peter.  I  have  struggled,  and  am  con- 
quered." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  Tears 
streamed  down  his  face. 

"  Peter, — it  was  for  him, — for  my  boy. 
If  he  was  in  eternal  punishment " 

"  I  know,  I  know.     God  be  praised  !" 

"  I  was  '  he  who  sweareth  to  his  own 
hurt  and  changeth  not.'  But  He  will 
forgive  me,  for  I  have  prayed." 

She  did  not  speak  again.  From  the 
next  room  a  low,  grating  noise  came. 
The  nurse  was  asleep  and  snoring.  Beth 
rose,  and,  tiptoeing  in,  awoke  her.  Then, 
after  an  instant's  hesitation,  she  went 
down-stairs,  and,  passing  through  the 
dining-room,  into  the  kitchen.  At  the 
269 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

table,  his  head  on  his  arm,  asleep,  sat 
Hank,  the  "  hired  man." 

Beth  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  a 
quarter-past  one.  "No  wonder  I  am 
hungry,"  she  thought.  Taking  the  lamp^ 
she  went  into  the  cool-room,  and,  open- 
ing the  ice-box,  took  out  a  pan  of  milk 
and  a  freshly-cut  ham. 

"I  suppose  it  is  awful,  my  being  hun- 
gry," she  thought,  as  she  cut  the  ham, 
and  then  opened  the  bread-box ;  "but  I 
am." 

When  her  sandwich  was  made,  she 
dipped  a  cup  into  the  pan  of  milk  and 
raised  it  to  her  lips.  Then,  with  a  sud- 
den fantastic  idea,  she  carefully  poured 
the  milk  back.  "It  is  Granny's  milk  for 
to-morrow  morning.  She  will  not  want 
it,  but  I  must  not  drink  it." 

Contenting  herself  with  a  cup  of  water 
from  the  filter  and  her  sandwich,  she 
made  her  impromptu  meal. 

When  she  was  satisfied,  she  went  up- 
stairs again,  without  waking  Hank. 

No  one  had  moved  in  the  sick-room, 
270 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

and  she  took  her  place  again  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  It  was  coming  now, — Death, 
this  thing  that  she  had  always  so  feared, 
and  she  was  no  longer  afraid. 

"  It's  because  I  am  not  real  in  any  one 
point,"  she  told  herself.  "I  would  eat 
blubber  in  a  week  if  I  were  with  Esqui- 
maux." Then,  with  a  little  self-congratu- 
latory shiver,  she  felt  that  her  nature 
gave  her  the  advantage  over  others  less 
adaptable.  * 

Just  as  the  dawn  began  to  break,  the 
end  came.  Mrs.  Gurney  opened  her 
eyes,  said  faintly,  "  God  bless  you,  Peter. 
I  am  going  to  my  boy,"  and  it  was  over. 

Wayne  was  kneeling  by  the  bed,  Beth 
standing,  her  hands  pressed  together. 
Her  grandmother  had  forgotten  her ! 
She  watched  the  wonderful  change  pass 
over  the  old  woman's  face,  and  then 
gently  left  the  room.  Lying  down  on 
her  bed,  she  fainted.  Wayne  knelt  long, 
and  then,  rising  slowly,  went  down-stairs. 
Opening  the  door,  he  stepped  out  on 
the  wet  grass,  and,  crossing  to  the  rose- 
27: 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

bed,  cut  with  his  knife  two  half-blown 
"  Maiden's  Blush"  roses. 

Then  he  went  up-stairs  again  and  into 
her  room.  Pushed  to  the  back  of  the 
table  was  her  work-basket.  The  old  man 
opened  it,  and,  taking  out  a  bit  of  thread, 
laboriously  tied  the  roses  into  a  clumsy 
nosegay. 

Then  he  pulled  up  the  curtains  and  let 
in  the  early  sun.  Her  face  was  beautiful 
to  him  in  its  great  peace.  "  Thank  God  !" 
he  said,  aloud ;  and,  bending  over  her,  he 
kissed  her  cheek  and  laid  his  nosegay  in 
her  hand.  Then,  as  he  turned  away,  his 
eyes  fell  on  the  scar  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
queer  smile  came  to  his  shaking  lips. 
"For  sixty  years,"  he  said,  softly,  "and  I 
never  dared  ask  her  how  she  got  it." 


272 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  folding-doors  were  open,  and 
across  the  hall,  the  dining-room 
doors. 

And  the  rooms,  and  the  hall,  except- 
ing a  narrow  passage,  and  a  small  place 
in  the  parlour,  were  closely  packed  with 
small,  highly  varnished  yellow  chairs, — 
chairs  that  served  in  turn  for  funerals, 
ball  supper-rooms,  and  "  tea-parties,"  of 
the  old-fashioned,  sit-down  kind,  for  the 
whole  town. 

Silently,  with  much  dignity  of  de- 
meanour, Mr.  Ingalls,  the  undertaker, 
conducted  the  guests  to  their  places, 
sometimes  whispering  a  word  decorously 
behind  his  black  kid  hand. 

The  air  was  heavv  with  the  scent  of 

* 

waxy  flowers,  for   in   Deepwater  people 
still  sent  flowers  to  dead  friends. 

Through  the  windows,  over  which  the 
light-yellow  blinds  had  been  lowered,  a 

1 8  273 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

warm  sun  forced  its  way  in,  and  in  the 
parlour  a  big  bee  hummed  sleepily  over 
the  tuberoses. 

Slowly  the  rooms  filled.  The  wife  of 
Mr.  Fry,  the  rival  undertaker  of  the 
town,  who,  with  patient  skill,  was  winding 
her  way  into  society,  sat  in  the  corner  by 
the  sitting-room  door,  and  beside  her, 
much  to  her  satisfaction,  was  Mrs.  George 
Lewis,  a  leader  of  the  "gay  set." 

The  coffin  stood  by  the  flower-filled 
fireplace, — a  very  elegant  casket,  Mrs. 
Fry  mentally  styled  it,  as  she  fanned  her- 
self solemnly.  She  was  glad  William 
had  not  "got"  the  funeral.  She  objected 
to  this  phase  of  his  prosperous  furniture 
business,  but  he  insisted  on  continuing  it, 
as  it  was  his  pastime. 

Mrs.  McLean  was  there,  her  pale  lips 
drawn  into  a  rigid  line  over  her  flashing 
golden  teeth,  and  by  her  sat  Judge  Wil- 
son and  his  wife,  severest  of  the  Brick 
Presbyterian  Church  people, — by  a  freak 
of  Providence  for  Mr.  Ingalls.  In  the 
hall  Bella  Lacy — still  Bella  Lacy — was 
274 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

crying  snuffily  in  a  new  handkerchief. 
The  whole  town  was  there.  The  Porters, 
the  Barclays,  who  were  supposed  to  be 
on  the  eve  of  a  divorce,  old  Mrs.  Hill,  a 
recently  made  widow,  the  Carrolls,  who 
had  "  struck  oil"  and  grown  rich,  Maud 
Murray,  who  had  married  one  of  the 
Porter  boys  and  lost  all  her  beauty  with 
her  first  baby, — every  one  was  there. 

Outside,  in  the  sun,  the  carriages  were 
waiting, — "hacks"  for  the  most  part. 
The  hearse,  its  door  invitingly  open,  was 
backed  up  to  the  curb,  and  everything 
was  ready. 

Suddenly,  within  the  house  there  was 
a  subdued  rustle  of  excitement ;  heads 
were  turned  discreetly  towards  the  hall. 

Beth,  dressed  of  course  in  heavy  black, 
came  in,  leaning  on  Peter  Wayne's  arm. 
Behind  them  came  a  cousin  of  her  grand- 
mother's whom  she  had  never  seen  before, 
a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  "goatee." 

They  took  their  places  behind  the 
coffin,  and  waited. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
275 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Life "  Mr.  Lane,  the  new  rector 

of  St.  John's,  had  a  resonant  voice, 
which  he  used  to  good  effect.  The 
beautiful  words  fell  slowly,  dramatically, 
from  his  lips,  amid  the  smell  of  lilies 
and  tuberoses. 

Beth  listened.  She  was  worn  out 
mentally  and  physically.  When  she  had 
recovered  from  her  faint  she  had  cried 
for  hours,  half  from  pity  for  her  grand- 
mother, half  in  pity  for  herself.  Her 
grandmother,  the  only  creature  of  kin 
she  had  on  earth,  had  left  her.  Her 
utter  helplessness  angered  her,  and  the 
mingled  pains  were  unrelieved  by  any 
religious  sentiments. 

That  her  grandmother  had  gone,  she 
knew :  where,  she  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  She  had  loved  her  grandmother, 
and  now  the  old  woman  had  left  her,  and 
she  was  alone. 

To  her  own  surprise,  she  realized  that 
the  tie  of  blood  was  very  strong  in  her. 

The  thought  of  Italy  sickened  her. 
.With  her  horrible  clear-sightedness  she 
276 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

realized  not  only  the  utter  futility  of  her 
life  there,  the  aimlessness  of  it  all,  but 
also,  and  what  was  worse  for  her,  that 
the  charm  of  it  had  fled  forever  with  the 
novelty. 

She  did  not  love  her  husband ;  in  the 
six  years  of  her  married  life  she  had  not 
made  one  real  friend. 

She,  the  Duchess  of  Roccabianca,  was 
an  alien  in  her  husband's  country,  andt 
now  that  her  grandmother  was  dead,  she 
had  no  country  of  her  own.  She  was  an 
alien  everywhere. 

She  smiled  grimly  behind  her  thick 
veil  as  she  realized  that  for  once  she  had 
no  need  to  play  a  role.  Her  desolate- 
ness,  her  grief,  were  so  real  as  to  be  self- 
sufficient. 

And  in  the  black  box  lay  her  grand- 
mother,— her  dear  old  Granny.  And 
they  were  going  to  take  her  away  and 
bury  her. 

A  bee  hummed  noisily,  and  made 
foolish  dives  at  the  flowers. 

She  wished  she  might  go  into  a  con- 
277 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

vent, — or,  no, — she  wished  she  might  live 
on  alone  in  the  quiet,  old-fashioned 
house. 

An  unopened  letter  from  Roccabianca 
was  in  her  pocket.  She  had  not  opened 
it,  fearing  the  inevitable  confusion  it 
would  throw  into  her  thoughts.  She 
wished  to  mourn  her  grandmother  in 
peace. 

At  length  the  short  service  was  over, 
and  the  coffin  was  carried  out  by  the  pall- 
bearers. 

With  an  effort  Beth  stifled  a  cry. 
They  were  taking  her  grandmother  away  ! 
The  horror  of  being  buried  came  over 
her  like  the  sickening  dizziness  from  a 
blow.  No  air, — no  light, — the  earth  on 
one !  She  forgot  that  the  dead  do  not 
feel. 

As  she  took  Wayne's  arm  she  stag- 
gered a  little.  Then,  going  down  the 
hall  towards  the  dazzling  blot  of  light 
that  was  the  front  door,  she  saw,  through 
her  crape  veil,  Gordon  Blair  standing  in 
a  corner  of  the  sitting-room,  his  arms 
278 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

folded.  And  instantly  the  weight  left  her 
breast,  and  the  moan  she  had  been  re- 
pressing turned  to  a  cry  of  gladness  even 
harder  to  keep  back. 

"Wretch, — brute  that  I  am  !"  she  said 
to  herself,  as  with  bent  head  she  walked 
down  the  path  to  the  gate.  "  Inhuman  f 
How  can  I  be  glad  when  she  is  there 
in  that  horrible  hearse  ?" 

And  then,  taking  her  place  in  the  car- 
riage, she  added,  with  the  characteristic 
frankness  which  played  so  great  a  role  in 
her  twisted  nature,  "Yet  I  am  happy. 
He  is  here.  Oh,  Gordon  Blair,  Gordon 
Blair." 

All  the  way  to  the  cemetery  the  name 
said  itself  over  and  over  -in  her  brain. 
Only  the  name.  She  was  too  tired  to 
think,  but  the  slow  wheels  ground  it  out 
with  a  rough  rhythm,  "  Gordon  Blair, 
Gordon  Blair." 

When  it  was  over  and  they  reached  the 

house  again,   Wayne  came  in  with  her. 

He  stayed   until   evening,  thinking   that 

he  must  not  leave  her  alone.     And  she 

279 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

waited  patiently,  sitting  in  silence  in  the 
corner  where  Blair  had  stood,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  book-case  against  which 
he  had  leaned. 

Wayne  was  very  quiet.  On  his  face 
was  something  very  like  happiness,  Beth 
thought. 

Once  he  said,  "  She  is  gone,  dear,  and 
I  am  left ;  but  I  am  not  sorry.  You,  too, 
are  not  sorry,  dear.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  cried,  throw- 
ing herself  on  his  shoulder ;  "oh,  Uncle 
Peter !" 

At  last  he  went,  walking  alone  to  his 
own  house,  over  the  way  he  had  taken 
so  many  thousand  times.  And  alone  in 
the  library  stood  Beth,  with  shining  eyes 
and  white  cheeks.  "  To-morrow  he  will 
come,"  she  said,  aloud,  "to-morrow." 


280 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  clock  struck  half-past  ten.  Beth 
took  up  the  little  old  yellow  plush 
work-bag  in  which,  ever  since  she  could 
remember,  her  grandmother  had  kept 
her  embroidery,  and  opened  it. 

She  unrolled  the  strip  of  finest  lawn, 
and,  holding  it  up  to  the  pale  light,  exam- 
ined the  work. 

It  was  a  pattern  of  heliotrope  and 
maiden-hair  fern,  the  design  being,  as  she 
knew,  by  Mrs.  Gurney  herself.  The 
work,  delicately  fine  at  first,  and  shaded 
with  exquisite  skill,  grew  coarser  as  it 
progressed,  and  her  eyes  filled  as  she 
noted  the  clumsy  bungling  of  the  bit 
stretched  over  the  hoop. 

"  Poor  Granny  !  Dear  Granny  !"  she 
thought,  her  vivid  imagination  at  once 
seeing  the  poor  old  woman's  tired  fingers 
struggling  to  continue  the  work  so  dear 
to  her. 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

A  rush  of  pity  swelled  her  throat,  and, 
bending  her  head  over  the  table,  she 
gently  kissed  the  shabby  little  bag. 

"I  will  always  keep  this  by  me " 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  that  he  was 
there.  Slowly  she  rose  and  went  to  him 
as  he  stood  just  within  the  door. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said, 
holding  out  both  her  hands. 

He  took  them  gently  and  held  them  to 
his  breast.  "  Of  course  I  have  come." 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  during  which 
she  looked  up  at  him  and  he  down  at  her 
in  silence. 

A  wagon  rattled  by  on  the  asphalt, 
birds  were  singing  outside  the  open  win- 
dows among  the  dusty  green  of  the 
trees.  A  door  slammed  up-stairs.  At 
length  Beth  said,  "  Then  you  did  care  ?" 

"Did  I  care?  Dear,  you  knew  it. 
And  you  ?" 

"  I  have  cared  all  my  life, — and  all  my 
life  it  has  been  the  only  thing  that  mat- 
tered. Come." 

She  led  him  to  a  chair,  and,  pushing  him 
282 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

gently  into  it,  knelt  on  the  rug  by  him, 
leaning  her  elbows  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

"What  is  there  to  tell?" 

"You  know." 

"  You  are  not  eloquent !" 

Her  voice  broke  as  she  tried  to  laugh. 
"Tell  me  that  you  love  me." 

"God  knows  I  love  you." 

The  sun  fell  in  the  dingy  old  room  and 
across  his  face.  He  looked  much  older, 
his  hair  was  very  gray  at  the  temples. 
A  wave  of  pity  came  over  her.  Being  a 
woman,  she  accepted  the  lines  in  his  face 
and  the  silver  in  his  hair  as  a  tribute  to 
herself.  She  forgot  time  and  other  things. 

"Then,  if  you  love  me,  why  don't  you 
kiss  me  ?" 

He  started,  and  with  impatience  she 
understood. 

"  I  am  no  longer  a  baby,"  she  went  on, 
hastily,  rising.  "  I  am  twenty-six,  and 
— I  know  what  I'm  doing." 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
283 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

looking  out.  Then  without  turning : 
"Tell  me  about  your  husband." 

"  Bah  !  my  husband.  You  need  have 
no  scruples  about  my  husband.  He  is  at 
present  in  Norway  travelling  with  the 
French  Embassador  to  Italy, — and  his 
wifeT. 

Blair  turned.     "  Ah  !" 

"  Yes.  Oh,  I  don't  in  the  least  mind,  I 
assure  you.  Besides,  I  am  used  to  it." 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child  !" 

He  came  back  slowly  and  stood  by  her. 

"  Now  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse 
me,"  she  said,  quietly  ;  "  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do, — and  I  thank  you  for  having 
come  to  offer  me  your  condolences  on  the 
loss  of  my  grandmother." 

"Beth!" 

"  Mr.  Blair  ?  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to 
inquire  for  your  wife.  I  hope  she  is 
well?" 

For  a  second  he  stood,  watching  her 
composed  face,  white  with  an  anger  that 
stung  him.  Then  with  a  cry — his  conven- 
tionality was  conquered  by  something 
284 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

stronger — Gordon  Blair  took  the  woman 
he  loved  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  mouth. 

At  length  she  disengaged  herself  and 
held  him  at  arm's  length,  her  face  full  of 
light. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,"  she 
said. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  never,  she 
thought,  had  she  seen  him  so  beautiful. 

"  How  can  I  let  you  go  ?"  he  murmured  ; 
"  how  can  I  ?  When  do  you  go  back  ?" 

She  turned  away.     "  Back  ? — where  ?" 

"  Home." 

"  I  have  no  home.  If  you  mean  Italy, 
— I  am  never  going  back." 

"What?" 

"  No ;  I'd  rather  live  the  rest  of  my 
days  in — Kalamazoo,  than  go  back 
there." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  then  he 
said,  "You  are  quite  determined,  Beth?" 

"  Absolutely." 

"Then,  dear,  will  you  come  with  me, 
— somewhere    far   away, — will    you    live 
out  your  life  alone  with  me  ?" 
285 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"I  would  go  to  hell  with  you.  Yes." 
Then  she  added,  "  But  Anna?" 

"Anna  would  not  care.  She — we 
have  not  been  together  for  two  years. 
She  has  gone  in  for  spiritualism,  and  lives 
at  Lilydale  most  of  the  time.  Beth, — 
shall  we  go?  We  can  go  to  Japan  or 
India, — wherever  you  like  ?" 

"  Yes.     We  will  go.     Oh,  Gordon  !" 

She  looked,  in  her  plain,  black  gown, 
so  young,  so  childlike,  that  his  conscience 
smote  him  again. 

"  You  must  realize  what  it  means,  dear. 
It  means  social  obliteration ;  it  means 
scorn,  and  it  means  mortal  sin." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "  De  la 
morale!  Gordon,  Gordon,  don't  you 
preach  to  me.  I  know  what  it  means, 
and,  on  my  word  of  honour,  I  don't  care  a 
pin.  What  people  may  say  is  nothing  to 
me,  and  as  to  the  sin, — if  there  is  no 
God, — well  and  good,  and  if  there  is,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  Him.  He  made  me,  and 
He  made  me  what  I  am." 

"There  is  a  God,  dear." 
286 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  take  my  heaven  on 
earth,  that  is  all.  Oh,  my  darling,  my 
darling,  we  shall  be  together,  you  and  I, 
you  and  I !" 

A  second  later  Hank  put  his  head  in 
at  the  window,  "  B — Miss  Beth,  them 
roses  is  ready,  if  you  want  to  take  'em 
over  now.  Pm  ready." 

"  Very  well,  Hank.     I'll  come  at  once." 

Five  minutes  later  she  and  Hank 
were  walking  together  towards  Wayne's 
house. 

Her  veil  was  put  back,  her  face  radi- 
antly happy. 

"Was  that  Gordon  Blair?"  asked  the 
hired  man,  curiously.  "  Looks  old,  don't 
he  ?  He  used  to  be  an  awful  purty 
fellow." 

"Yes,  Hank.  He  was  very  good- 
looking  when  he  was  young." 

"  Did  you  know  that  young  Curtis  has 
twins  ?  He's  living  in  Californy." 

Beth  laughed  at  the  idea.  Billy  Curtis 
the  father  of  twins  !  Then,  as  she  saw 
Mrs.  Wilson  coming  down  the  steps,  the 
287 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

young  woman  composed  her  face  to  a 
proper  sadness. 

"Glad  you're  out,  Beth,"  the  old  lady 
said ;  "I  never  did  believe  in  staying  in 
the  house." 

"  I  am  going  to  poor  Uncle  Peter. 
I  am  taking  him  grandmother's  roses." 
Her  eyes  filled  with  emotional  tears,  to 
which  she  felt  distinctly  grateful. 

They  found  Wayne  standing  on  his 
porch,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  watch- 
ing two  men  who  were  busy  prying  up 
the  bricks  in  front  of  the  house. 

"I  am  a  silly  old  man,  Beth,"  he  said, 
without  greeting  her,  "  but  it  makes  me 
very  sad  that  they  are  putting  down  a 
new  sidewalk.  I  know  every  one  of  the 
old  bricks, — I  walked  over  them  every 
day  for  a  great  many  years.  A  great 
many  years  !"  His  eyes  were  wet. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have 
brought  you  her  roses.  We  must  plant 
them.  I  think  under  the  library  window 
would  be  the  best  place." 

"That  was  a  kind  thought,   my  child. 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Where  are  they  ?  Ah,  poor  things ! 
Thank  you,  Hank.  You  may  go  ;  Sarah 
will  help  us." 

The  cook  came  out,  and  between  them 
the  roses  were  planted. 

"I  can't  realize  it  yet,  Beth,"  the  old 
man  said,  as  they  sat  down  to  rest  in  the 
shade.  "Twice  I've  put  on  my  hat  to  go 
over." 

"You  must  come  this  afternoon,  dear. 
She  will  like  you  to  come." 

"Yes,  you  and  I  must  be  together 
now."  Then,  with  a  sudden  frown  of 
pain,  "  But  you  will  have  to  go  back. 
When  must  you  go  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know.  I  can  stay  a  little 
longer." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  lonely  !  I  wish  you 
could  stay !  Couldn't  your  husband 
come  and  live  here  until  I  go  ?  It  won't 
be  long." 

Then  he  cried,  his  mouth  quivering. 
The  complete  breakdown  of  the  old  man 
hurt  her.  In  her  great  happiness,  it 
came  with  a  terrible  jar.  Life  was  to  be 

19  289 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

so  beautiful  to  her :  why  must  it  be  so 
sad  to  this  good  man  ? 

She  soothed  him  with  gentle  words, 
and  then,  promising  to  come  for  him  that 
afternoon  to  take  him  for  a  little  drive 
into  the  country,  she  said  good-bye. 


290 


CHAPTER   IX 

'  T  SHALL  have  two  little  surprises  for 

A  you,  Uncle  Peter,  when  we  come 
home,"  Beth  said,  as  they  settled  them- 
selves in  the  big  "hack,"  with  its  linen 
cushion-covers.  "  Now,  enjoy  the  drive 
as  much  as  you  can." 

"  How  can  I  enjoy  anything  when  Mary 
Anne  is  gone  ?" 

"I  think,"  she  said,  severely,  "that 
you  are  very  wicked,  Uncle  Peter  !  when 
you  know  that  she  is  well  and  happy,  and 
that  she  had  such  a  beautiful  death  !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  wicked.  But, — it  was 
a  blessed  death.  God's  hand  is  strong." 

"  And  she  was  old  and  ill,  you  know, 

and  now !"  A  world  of  religious 

enthusiasm  was  in  her  voice. 

Wayne  straightened  up.  "  Yes,  you 
are  right,  dear.  I  have  much  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  Also,  that  you  have  the  blessing 
of  faith  is  a  great  comfort  to  me.  I  used 
291 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

to  fear  for  you  at  one  time.  It  was  in 
your  blood,  and — there  were  certain  little 
things " 

He  broke  off,  and  looked  at  her 
anxiously. 

"You  never  had  doubts,  Beth,  had  you  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  had  doubts." 

"You  were  always  so  reserved,  even 
as  a  child ;  but  you  show  now,  in  your 
resignation  to  the  will  of  God,  that  you 
are  upheld  by  faith." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter,  I  am  upheld  by 
faith." 

"  How  I  can  lie !"  she  thought  to  her- 
self, as  he,  content,  leaned  back  in  his 
place  and  fell  into  a  revery.  "  And  yet  I 
really  do  mean  it  kindly  in  this  case. 
Why  should  I  torment  him  ?" 

Then  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Blair 
and  their  future.  She  felt  a  little  thrill  of 
self-approval  as  she  realized  what  she 
considered  her  great  faithfulness. 

"  For  nearly  twelve  years  I  have  loved 
him.     Amid  all  the  distractions  and  gay- 
eties  of  Rome  I  never  forgot  him." 
292 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

She  did  not  remember  the  various 
interruptions  to  this  love  that  she  had 
met :  the  Englishman  who  came  on  for 
Blair's  wedding ;  Savrigny ;  the  German 
on  the  ship ;  a  baritone  who  sang  in 
Rome  shortly  after  her  marriage,  of 
whom  she  had  dreamed  for  weeks,  and  to 
whom  she  had  sent  anonymous  flowers  ; 
a  certain  Marchese  Oliveta,  who  had  been 
desperately  in  love  with  her  sister-in-law, 
and  whom  she  had  adored,  suffering 
agonies  of  jealousy  over  his  courteous 
disregard  of  her. 

These  were  mere  accidentals  in  the 
great  symphony  of  her  one  love. 

Besides,  was  not  a  love  almost  sublime 
that  gave  up  for  a  life  a  deux  and  a  ruined 
name,  all  the  splendours  of  the  Duchessa 
di  Roccabianca? 

Blair  had,  she  knew,  speculated  success- 
fully, and  had  now  a  small,  independent 
fortune,  but  in  comparison  with  Rocca- 
bianca he  was  a  pauper. 

She  sighed  as  she  thought  of  her  jewels, 
which  must,  of  course,  go  back  to  Rome. 
293 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

And  her  beautiful  carriages,  with  the 
closed  crown  on  the  panel.  And  her 
splendid  Portiere,  an  immensely  tall  old 
man  with  the  finest  whiskers  in  Rome. 
She  was  giving  up  a  great  deal.  And 
for  what  ? 

Her  eyes  swept  listlessly  over  the  flat 
fields  shorn  of  their  harvests.  For  a 
man  who  was  neither  rich,  nor  titled, 
nor  clever.  For  a  man,  moreover,  who, 
though  he  was  going  to  run  away  with 
her,  had  scruples ! 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "what  it  is 
in  me  that  binds  me  to  Gordon  Blair  ?  I 
have  more  brains  in  my  little  finger  than 
he  has  in  his  head.  Can  it  be  only  his 
beauty?" 

Then,  with  a  great  warmth  at  her 
heart,  she  finished,  "  But  I  love  him.  It 
is  Love'' 

And  she  plumed  herself  on  her  ca- 
pacity for  the  great  passion. 

Towards  sunset  the  carriage  came 
back  through  the  streets  and  stopped  at 
Wayne's  door. 

294 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Beth  got  out  with  the  old  man,  and, 
with  a  quick  glance  at  the  grass-plot  to 
the  left  of  the  house,  led  him  into  the 
gate. 

"Dear  Uncle  Peter,"  she  said,  her 
voice  sweet  with  the  pleasure  she  was 
about  to  give  him,  "  shall  we  take  a  little 
walk?" 

Slipping  her  arm  through  his,  she 
directed  his  steps  past  the  porch  and  a 
little  way  down  the  path. 

"Do  you  not  notice  anything?"  she 
said. 

Wayne  looked  around,  and  then  his 
eyes  fell  on  a  newly-made  brick  path  that 
led  completely  around  the  garden.  The 
path  was  covered  with  white  sand. 

"  Oh,  Beth  !"  he  said.  Then  he  leaned 
down,  and  with  his  hand  brushed  away 
a  little  sand.  "  My  bricks  !  The  old 
bricks  !" 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  went  slowly 
along  with  bent  head. 

Beth  stopped  at  the  kitchen  window, 
and  called  to  Sarah  to  give  her  a  broom. 
295 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

Then  the  Duchess  of  Roccabianca  swept 
the  sand  off  the  newly-laid,  mossy,  worn 
old  bricks,  and  Wayne,  following  her, 
bade  God  bless  her  for  her  kind  thought. 

O 

"  I  bought  them  of  the  contractor,  and 
I  had  five  men  at  work  that  it  might  be 
finished.  Do  you  like  it,  really  ?" 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "I  know  every  brick, 
every  crack.  See  that  face  where  the 
brick  is  broken  ?  I  always  fancy  it  looks 
like  me." 

His  pleasure  was  great.  At  last  they 
went  together  to  the  old  house  and  had 
dinner. 

Together  with  his  happiness  over  her 
little  scheme  was  a  mixture  of  pride  in 
her  that  touched  her  deeply. 

In  the  evening  they  sat  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  then,  on  his  asking  her  to  sing, 
went  into  the  parlour.  She  opened  the 
old  square  piano.  She  had  little  voice, 
but  sang  with  some  taste. 

He  asked  for  hymns,  and,  lighting 
the  lamp,  she  found  the  old  hymn-book. 
With  infinite  patience  she  sang  for  over 
296 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

an  hour,  "Rock  of  Ages,"  ''Jerusalem 
the  Golden,"  "  Lead,  kindly  Light,"  each 
with  all  the  stanzas. 

At  length  he  joined  her  with  a  pathetic, 
wavering  voice  that  must  have  been  a 

o 

tenor  years  ago.  "  Lead,  kindly  Light, 
amid  th'  encircling  gloom " 

When  it  was  ended,  he  added,  "  It 
won't  be  long."  He  had  taken  down  the 
old  rose-jar,  and,  as  he  spoke,  it  slipped 
from  his  hands  to  the  stone  before  the  fire- 
place, and  broke  into  a  hundred  pieces. 

"I  am  glad  it  is  broken,"  he  said, 
slowly,  as  she  gathered  up  the  sweet 
brown  rose-leaves.  "  She  is  gone,  and  it 
is  gone,  and  I  shall  go  soon." 

"  Uncle  Peter,"  she  said,  as  she  ac- 
companied him  to  the  door  towards  ten 
o'clock,  "  I  have  another  surprise  for 
you.  I  am  going  to  stay  with  you." 

"  Stay  ?    What  will  your  husband  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  will  let  me." 

"  He  must  be  very  good." 

"  Yes ;    he  is  very  good.     And  I  am 
going  to  stay  with  you." 
297 


CHAPTER  X 

SEPTEMBER    TO. 

DEAR  PHIL,— The  end  was  very 
quiet.  He  died  in  my  arms,  dear 
old  man.  I  am  glad  I  stayed  with  him, 
for  I  loved  him. 

Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
about  myself.  To-morrow  I  am  going 
away  with  Gordon  Blair.  You  will  not 
be  shocked,  I  know.  You  will  be  sorry, 
but  you  are  too  clever  to  be  surprised. 
I  wonder  if  you  are  clever  enough  not  to 
pity  me  ? 

I  need  no  pity,  Phil. 

I  have  loved  him  all  my  life.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  used  to  confess  me 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  goose  of  a  thing 
with  nothing  to  confess  but  my  egregious 
vanity  ? 

Now,  at  the  last,  I  am  going  to  confess 
to  you  again, — I  must  end  it  all  smoothly 
298 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

and  appropriately, — you  will  remember 
my  passion  for  graceful  conclusions.  In 
the  first  place,  I  love  him  and  he  loves 
me ;  and,  secondly,  neither  his  wife  nor 
my  husband  will  care,  after  the  first 
shock. 

Now,  to  go  back.  Roccabianca  was 
very  kind  to  me  always.  When  I  first 
learned  that  his  kindness  was  not  in  the 
least  incompatible  with  all  manner  of  un- 
faithfulness, I  was  in  despair. 

Then  I  was  angry,  and  at  last  simply 
indifferent.  You  may  remember  my  re- 
markable capacity  for  adaptability? 
JBien, — I  adapted  myself  in  that  case 
also.  At  first,  I  greatly  enjoyed 
being  a  Roman  duchess.  I  loved  the 
"pomps  and  vanities,"  I  loved  the  at- 
mosphere of  century-old  luxury.  And  I 
learned  Italian  in  six  months  so  well  that 
people  almost  forgot  that  I  was  an  Amer- 
ican. Then,  suddenly,  I  found  that  I  was 
bored.  I  tried  various  kinds  of  distraction, 
among  others,  "  The  Church." 

Cardinal  Roccabianca  attempted  to  con- 
299 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

vert  me,  but  "convert"  meant  "change," 
and  how  could  I,  who  had  no  religion, 
be  changed  to  another  ? 

It  was,  of  course,  impossible,  though  the 
aesthetic  side  of  it  pleased  me, — and  after 
amusing  myself  with  a  sort  of  spiritual 
flirtation,  I  went  in  for  globe-trotting. 

Roccabianca  is  a  capital  traveller,  and 
it  was  really  delightful  roaming  about 
with  him,  for  you  must  realize  that  we 
were  always  on  very  good  terms. 

When  we  came  home  I  tried  flirting. 
That  didn't  answer,  for  Italians  do  not 
know  how  to  flirt, — they  lose  their  heads. 

Then  charity  came  in  for  its  turn. 
Poor  people  always  like  me,  and  I  like 
them  for  a  time.  Then  suddenly  I  began 
to  smell  them,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
that. 

All  this  time,  Phil,  I  never  forgot  Gor- 
don Blair.  For  months  I'd  hardly  think 
of  him,  and  then  some  night  I'd  dream  of 
him,  so  vividly  as  nearly  to  break  my 
heart  And  for  weeks  after  I  could  think 
only  of  him,  his  face  being  as  distinctly 
300 


MARH'D    IN    MAKING 

before  my  eyes  as  though  he  were  there 
in  person. 

At  last  a  young  Sicilian  came  to  Rome, 
who  looked  like  him, — Gordon.  And  he 
fell  in  love  with  me. 

That  brought  it  all  back  to  me,  and  I 
really  suffered,  while  it  gave  me  the  keen- 
est pleasure.  Do  you  understand  ?  Can 
any  one  human  being  really  understand 
another  ? 

At  all  events,  I  had  just  decided  to  let 
everything  go  and  fall  in  love  with  d'Ar- 
genti,  when  Uncle  Peter's  cable  came. 

I  came  at  once,  and  I  really  did  my 
best  to  help  her,  and  make  up  to  her  for 
my  neglect. 

Of  course  I  posed, — in  voice  and  man- 
ner and  dress, — of  course  I  played  the 
ministering  angel,  but  that  is  a  thing 
apart, — I  cannot  help  it.  What  is  of  im- 
portance is  that  I  tried  to  be  useful  and 
gentle. 

And  my  old  horror  of  pain  and  death 
seemed  to  melt  away  as  I  tried.  I  sup- 
pose that  is  a  sign  that  I  might  have  been 
301 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

good  had  I  learned  to  overcome  my- 
self. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  he  came. 

I  should  have  gone  away  with  him  at 
once,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  poor 
old  Uncle  Peter.  So  I  waited,  and  once 
more  was  as  good  as  I  knew  how  to 
be. 

And  to-morrow  I  join  Gordon  at  New 
York.  I  am  quite  calm  now,  but  to  you 
I  must  say  that  I  have  struggled.  I  am 
giving  up  a  great  deal,  Phil,  and  things 
that  I  love.  There  was  always  a  broad 
vulgar  streak  in  me,  you  know, — inherited, 
I  suppose,  from  my  poor  little  mother,  who 
was  a  dressmaker.  Even  now,  on  the 
eve  of  this  tremendous  step,  I  find  my 
thoughts  turning  to  my  jewels,  to  my 
horses. 

And  yet  I  am  happy.  All  my  life  I 
have  lied  and  posed,  and  found  no  inner 
obstacle  to  anything  I  wished  to  do,  and 
yet  I  shall  feel  myself  cleaner  if  I  go  than 
if  I  stayed, — you  will  know  what  I  mean. 

And  that  counts,  even  with  me.  It 
302 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

cannot  be  conscience,  so  it  must  be  pride, 
but  the  feeling  is  there. 

Is  it  not  queer  that  /  should  comfort 
myself  with  the  thought  that  in  one  sense 
I  shall  be  honest  even  in  my  dishonour  ? 

After  all,  whose  fault  is  it  ? 

Do  you  remember  the  stanza  in  the 
"Rubaiyat"? 

"  Some  there  are  who  tell 
Of  One  who  threatens  He  will  toss  to  Hell 
The  pots  He  marr'd  in  making." 

I  think  I  must  have  been  marred  in 
making.  Something  made  me,  and  as  I 
am.  I  always  could  distinguish  between 
right  and  wrong.  It  was  not  that  I  did 
not  know,  it  was  only  that  I  did  not  care. 
Did  not  and  do  not. 

I  am  kind  by  nature,  and  have  many 
good  impulses,  and  yet — I  have  simply 
no  moral  hold  on  things.  Every  anchor 
drags  with  me.  Basta  !  Here  I  am  again 
taking  myself  apart  to  see  the  wheels  go 
round. 

Good-bye.  To-morrow  I  go,  and  I  am 
303 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

happy.  When  you  think  of  me,  don't 
think  of  the  Duchess  di  Roccabianca, 
whom  indeed  you  never  saw,  nor  of  Gor- 
don Blair's  mistress,  whom  you  never  will 
see.  Think  only  of  one  who  has  always 
been  fond  of  you,  and  who  will  never  for- 
get you. 

BETH. 
******* 

Two  days  later,  Phil  Pollock  stood  in 
the  parlour  of  the  Gurney  house  looking 
down  at  Beth  in  her  coffin. 

They  had  found  her,  the  morning  after 
she  had  written  to  him,  in  the  river,  not 
far  from  the  Pocahontas  Club  Landing. 

No  one  knew  why,  the  woman  who  let 
him  in  had  told  him. 

But  Pollock  knew.  He  knew  that  the 
undisciplined  mind,  struggling  between 
two  possibilities,  had  not  been  strong 
enough  to  renounce  either. 

The    Duchess   of   Roccabianca   could 
not  give  up  the  self-respect  that  she  had 
called  her  pride,  and  Elisabeth  Gurney 
could  not  give  up  her  love. 
304 


MARR'D    IN    MAKING 

And  he  knew  that  at  the  end  the  wo- 
man had  done  her  best,  in  her  poor,  blind 
way. 

While  he  stood  in  the  sun,  looking 
down  at  her  still  face,  the  door  opened 
and  a  man  came  in. 

"You  are  Gordon  Blair?"  said  the 
cripple,  who  had  never  seen  the  other. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Blair,  hoarsely,  "and 
you  are  Pollock.  You  knew  her.  Tell 
me, — did  she  really  love  me  ?" 

Pollock  laid  his  hand  on  the  edge  of 
the  coffin,  as  though  he  were  speaking 
for  the  woman  within  it. 

"Yes.  What  she  had  to  give,  she 
gave  to  you." 

Then  he  went  out  and  left  them  alone 
together. 


THE    END. 


305 


Miss  CarmkhacTf  C 


onsoKC 


aim' t 

ci^  ii  •stewed-  vaar^. .  nxc  txflc  ^wr  s  tx-  .ss  11 

tifr    TCZST  f  "VIODiK flW&BBBS. r— *i] 

-rrani^'  "V  uses^. .  an  ^^wtji    n  "tw- 


ittle 


at  •"»  JT»»».  —  ev  _   .im»  u.  r   n;  itm  SE? 
«il  'nrwf      ^inr  tim:  trrm-we&.i  in 


r  «dl 
tir   jjf  x.  Kr?        TTl 


c^ie:  meat  *s"-ea:  n:,ts«Ki^iilfc     i  t  uis 


gtn-jt  i  u  ,  '   rnc  n    is  ica-  nut 


nm  yuac-iwr  n  -t 

iL 


000051683     1 


